Left Over
by rainingaces
Summary: Kurt didn't take him in because he was attractive. He took him in because it was cold outside and he looked injured. It was like While You Were Sleeping, and Kurt was Sandra Bullock. Except with weird, unexplained phenomena. ...And without Bill Pullman.
1. Prologue

**Rating:** PG - 13  
><strong>Summary:<strong> _Kurt took him in because it was cold outside, and he looked injured, and Kurt had an insatiable curiosity and wanted to find out how the hell the boy had ended up in his backyard in the first place (his being really attractive didn't hurt, either). It was like While You Were Sleeping, and Kurt was Sandra Bullock. Except with weird, unexplained phenomena. …And without Bill Pullman._  
>Spoilers: a little NBK and SLS, but AU in general<br>**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything. I don't even own this idea. I stole this idea from cosmic_owl, who graciously granted me permission.  
><strong>Warnings: mentions of scary movies, eventual (but not for a while) light exploration of issues of consent<strong>  
><strong>AN:** Once upon a time, cosmic_owl wrote an adorable little story on lj that inspired me so much that I stole it from her. I doubt I'll be as quirky and funny as she is, but I have big plans for this little story that have taken hold of me and won't let me go. This is the first time I've ever written Kurt POV. Hopefully I haven't completely butchered his character. :) I hope you enjoy!

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><p>Kurt jolted to consciousness, blinking blindly into the darkened room as he tried to figure out why he was awake. Moonlight filtered through a sliver in the curtain, shining a severe line of silver-blue across the bottom corner of his bedspread: nothing was in his room. He shivered a little and drew the blanket up around his shoulders to wall himself off from the chill. His ears strained—maybe something had—<p>

_WHUMP!_

Kurt jumped as the air split with the sound. _What was that?_

It sounded like it had come from outside. His toes met iced carpet and he slipped lightning quick from the blanket-cape into the dressing gown he kept by his bed (tailored worthy of Rita Hayworth). Drawing it tight around his waist, Kurt crept carefully over to the window. Pulling back the curtain, he peered out into the landscape of the backyard (he's still a little tickled at the fact that they now have a _backyard_), squinting slightly at the flooding bright light illuminating the outside world.

Nothing.

Hairs at the back of his neck tickled. Kurt determinedly ignored the slow crawling of invisible fingers at his spine, the flickering warning in his mind that whispered _being watched_.

It was two in the morning. Of course he was going to be a little—HOLY CRAP.

Kurt's scream strangled in his throat and turned more into a squeak as he jerked away from the window, tripping backwards over his feet and falling onto his bed, drawing his legs up off the floor and _not breaking eye contact with the window because something just seriously moved out there and it was big and terrifying and maybe he should wake up Finn and get him to evacuate the house so Kurt could call an exorcist._

Oh God, two am, two am, that's when all the bad stuff happened! He _knew_ watching Paranormal Activity last night had been a bad idea! Next time Finn wanted to have a bro night they would be watching Gypsy and _no, that was not a request_.

Okay. Okay. But in the meantime, there was a demonic spirit outside in the backyard and it had seen Kurt looking at it and it was only a matter of time before it decided to possess him and kill all of his family members in vengeful retaliation. Kurt had to do something. Preventative. Something preventative so that it wouldn't enter the house. Okay.

Shoulders tight around his ears, he slowly placed his feet back on the ground and tiptoed over to the window. He delicately lifted the curtain with his thumb and forefinger.

There. A blackish-blue form lying crumpled underneath the tree.

Kurt stared hard.

The form stared back.

(…Well, it might not have been staring back. Kurt didn't know, because he couldn't see its eyes.)

They stared at each other some more before Kurt spurred himself to action.

Whipping the curtain closed, he ran out his door, down the stairs, through the kitchen, before stopping abruptly by the sliding glass doors that led outside. His every muscle hummed with foreboding. What would happen when he opened the doors? Was he being just like the stupid husband if he tried to go outside and figure out what the black figure was? Damn Finn and his stupid affinity for scary movies! If Kurt hadn't had images of nightvision cameras flashing through his head, this whole situation would have been _so much easier._

From where he stood by the doors, it was harder to see the figure under the oak tree. Kurt couldn't even make out a vague outline. Maybe it wasn't even there. It had been kind of hard to see up in his room, but now that he was on the ground level… he had no idea.

Dammit.

He'd have to go outside.

Kurt took a breath before running across the door, freezing when he reached the other side. He was careful to keep his back to the wall and his eyes wide open.

Nothing happened.

Tingling shivers scraped like fingernails down his arms and he made his way to the living room to grab a flashlight. His back tensed as the stale night air blew quietly against it. Exposed. Vulnerable. He fought the instinct to run back to the shield of safety that had been the wall.

Maybe he should have woken up Finn after all. Finn was big and tall and played football. Or better yet, his dad.

This was ridiculous. He was sixteen. _You're sixteen_, he scolded himself. He could handle a little thing like this. He could kick as high as his head and, if need be, sing a high F and wake up the entire neighborhood if attacked. He could do this. This wasn't scary. Going to school with David I'm-So-Far-In-The-Closet-I-Need-A-Map-To-Find-My-Way-Out Karofsky every day, _that _was scary. This was nothing. This was scary movie night. This was nothing.

His fingers closed around the hilt of the flashlight and Kurt raised it, carefully quiet. He turned to face the back door. No problems. Just checking out a mysterious noise. This was nothing.

The door whined as he slid back the long glass pane. He shivered as he stepped barefoot outside (slippers; that would have been smart, Kurt). Balancing on his toes in an attempt to make the least amount of contact with the ground as was possible, he clicked on the flashlight and watched as a beam of yellow invaded the night's shadows.

Nothing. He'd have to get closer. One hand drawing his dressing gown tighter against the wind, the other extending the flashlight out ahead of him like a fencing foil, he snuck slowly across the cold, dewed grass. Avoiding as best he could the crunching of aged brown leaves. Keeping a vigilant eye on the illuminated blades of green ahead of him. He was almost at the tree when—

Kurt's stomach flipped and he felt his breath hitch. Oh crap. _There._

There it was. There was the form. There _had _been a form outside. It was underneath the oak tree. It was crumpled underneath the oak tree and it wasn't moving.

It was also apparently wearing incredibly well-kept slip-on Bostonian Eatons.

…Well.

If this was the dress code for all evil spirits, maybe they weren't as bad as Finn's scary movies made them out to be.

Kurt cautiously moved closer, shining the light fully on the figure and bracing himself for a sudden attack. Or fangs. Or claws that would jump up and rip into his throat and make—

Oh.

It was a boy.

Kurt blinked.

There was a boy lying crumpled underneath the oak tree in his backyard, wearing well-kept slip-on Bostonian Eatons.

At two in the morning.

…He was kind of incredibly attractive, actually.


	2. Introducing the Lady with the Lamp

****Rating:** **PG - 13**  
><strong>Summary:<strong> **_Kurt took him in because it was cold outside, and he looked injured, and Kurt had an insatiable curiosity and wanted to find out how the hell the boy had ended up in his backyard in the first place (his being really attractive didn't hurt, either). It was like While You Were Sleeping, and Kurt was Sandra Bullock. Except with weird, unexplained phenomena. …And without Bill Pullman._**  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> **a little NBK and SLS, but AU in general**  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong>** I do not own anything.**  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>**mentions of scary movies, eventual (but not for a while) light exploration of issues of consent  
><strong>AN:** **And so we _actually_ begin. Just as a warning to those of you getting started, this starts out pretty tame, but I tend to plot like a crazy madwoman on steroids—so prepare for a dangerous, intense, and hopefully funny ride! I'll try to update this story fairly quickly, if will cooperate with me!**

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><p>Kurt <em>didn't<em> spend the next eight hours staring at the boy underneath the oak tree.

Really.

Ten minutes into studying his profile, he realized it would probably be beneficial to actually do something about the stranger that had invaded his backyard, and he spent another ten minutes trying to wake the boy up. When he discovered the utter fruitlessness of that plan, Kurt spent a further five minutes trying to decide whether bringing him into the house screamed "appropriate princess-in-the-forest introduction to your future husband" or "creepy kidnapper". The more he stared at the boy, the more images of glorious romantic epics sprawled across his brain, until he found himself grabbing his poorly-tailored-trouser-covered legs and turning him onto his back, dragging him toward the glass doors of the house. Now that he could see the boy's face fully, Kurt couldn't take his eyes off of him (and since the object of his observation was unconscious, he didn't see a need to). Flashlight in his mouth and precariously illuminating the stranger in front of him, Kurt studied the pale skin and long, dark eyelashes. Black hair was slicked back with some kind of gel, but Kurt could see it was inclined to curl around his ears and forehead. Potential waking-up scenarios bloomed in vivid color in his mind, each containing more overt romantic overtones than the last.

In some remote corner of his mind that he was very steadfastly not listening to, he realized that bringing a stranger into the house was a stupendously bad idea. He had no idea who this boy was. He could be a serial killer for all he knew. A really well-dressed serial killer (seriously, he was rocking that blazer). Like Hannibal Lector (and Kurt knew who that was, even if he refused to watch the movie every time Finn asked). But the boy wouldn't wake up, and he couldn't very well just leave him outside in the cold all night… right?

Right.

Which is why when Kurt slid open the glass door, he didn't hesitate to grab his Peter Callaghan around the arms and drag him inside. Kurt had the upper hand inside, anyway. There were three other people in the house and a whole cabinet of knives he had access to if he needed to defend himself. Plus phones. There were at least six phones in the house, two of which were landlines, which were easier for emergency services track if he had to call 911 and leave the phone off the hook. So, bringing the stranger into the house was actually a really good idea.

Kurt's eyes lingered on cupid lips.

Yeah. A really good idea.

Settling Peter Callaghan onto the couch, Kurt ran upstairs to change into something more Sandra Bullock (or Florence Nightingale… Florence Nightingale would be better, actually, because Sandra Bullock ended up falling in love with Bill Pullman, and everything became ridiculously complicated, and really, Kurt hadn't even met this boy yet, and he'd like to keep his metaphors internally consistent—so 1800s English nurse it was). It took sixty-seven minutes to find the perfect pair of pants to go with his Marc Jacobs grosgrain trim crewneck t-shirt, during which time John Whatever-His-Last-Name-Was,-Kurt-Wasn't-Up-To-Date-On-British-History had remained beautifully unconscious in the living room. That was thirty minutes Kurt _hadn't_ spent staring at the intruder.

When he ran back down the stairs (because John could wake up _any minute_), he brought down his comforter and tucked it around the stranger, then curled into the armchair directly across from the couch and watched.

Waiting.

With a pair of scissors securely clutched in his right hand.

…Until he fell asleep accidentally, for about six hours. So, that was another calculable amount of time Kurt hadn't spent staring at John.

He was jolted rudely awake by Finn's loud voice echoing painfully in his ear.

"What the hell, man!"

Sunlight shafted into his eyes. Kurt blinked blearily up at his tall step-brother, trying to figure out why on earth Finn had invaded his room. Before he realized he wasn't _in_ his room.

What? Trickling slowly through the thin crevices of his mind, he remembered long eyelashes and _When You Were Sleeping_.

Living room. Armchair—

_Couch!_

"Oh!" he sprang upwards in the chair, wincing slightly at the pain in his neck (he really was getting too tall for this). "Wait, Finn, don't sit down!"

Finn, who was standing half-crouched above the couch, looked at Kurt incredulously. "Dude, I just sat on someone's legs! Why are there legs on the couch?" He tore the blanket off—and froze when he saw John's even-dreamier-in-the-daylight face underneath (John must have moved during the night, because Kurt certainly hadn't place that blanket over his face when he had tucked it around him earlier.)

They both stared.

"There's a dude on the couch!" Finn suddenly cried. He threw the blanket away from himself like it was infected. "Kurt, _why is there a dude on the couch?_"

"Okay, just calm down," Kurt said, holding his hands up placatingly. Finn's eyes widened and Kurt realized belatedly that he was still holding the scissors. He dropped them, and then held his hands up placatingly again. "He was in our backyard last night, and when I tried to wake him up he wouldn't wake up, so I brought him inside. I have everything under control. When he wakes up, we can ask him where he's from and why he was in our backyard. It's nothing serious. Okay?"

"It's a dude. It's a _dude on the couch_," Finn repeated, seemingly unable to get past that fact.

Kurt sighed. "Yes, Finn," he said. "There's a boy on the couch."

Finn stared at John for a while more before turning back to Kurt.

"We should call Burt."

"No," Kurt shook his head violently, "No, that's not necessary." Finn frowned. "We can handle this ourselves, Finn. Dad would only want to come back and help"—_or make me leave John outside—_"and he should go into work today and make up the money we lost buying the new house. We'll tell him when he gets home. Same goes with Carole."

"But—"

"Really, Finn," Kurt insisted firmly. "Everything is under control."

Finn looked skeptical, but after several pleading moments and a few blackmail attempts, he gave in.

"But can we move him? I kind of wanted to watch last night's game this morning," he said. Kurt leveled him a stare.

"And where do you suggest we move the stranger who randomly appeared in our backyard to, Finn?" he asked, voice acid. "Your room?"

Finn shrunk back slightly, looking longingly at the television.

Kurt let out a long breath. He slouched low into the seat, before grabbing the arms of the chair and hauling himself up.

"_O_kay, help me move this," he said, gesturing to the armchair. "You can watch on this chair." Finn shot him a little half-smile and moved to help.

They had to move the coffee table, but soon enough Finn was turning on the TV and watching men in tight white pants throw around a ball and tackle each other. Kurt shifted John's leg slightly and perched himself gracefully on the edge of the couch, peering at his patient. There were dark bruises under his eyes, a slight furrow to his thick eyebrows.

"I think he might be hurt," Kurt said softly.

"Huh?" Finn asked intelligently. Then he cried "Oh, no, come on!" as one of the men did something on the TV that Kurt wasn't paying attention to.

Kurt moved to sweep a curl away from John's face. "Maybe that's why he was in the backyard. Maybe he was hurt and he just collapsed underneath the oak tree." The situation was fitting his metaphors far better than he had expected. Kurt moved closer to study the sickly pallor of the boy's skin. "I wonder when he'll wake up."

"Yeah," Finn said. Kurt rolled his eyes and got up.

"I'm going to make some breakfast, do you want any?"

Finn's ears decided to work again at the mention of food. "Yeah, man, that'd be awesome," he enthused, eyes not leaving the screen.

"Let me know if he wakes up," Kurt called as he walked to the kitchen. He passed the glass doors and paused, looking into the yard. Searching for… something. He didn't know. Maybe another cute boy that had decided to collapse underneath the fir that bordered the house.

There weren't any other cute boys. There wasn't really _anything _to catch his eye.

Strangely disappointed, he continued on his way to the kitchen.

—–

Despite evidence that he had moved during the six hours Kurt had fallen asleep, John had stayed almost scarily still all day. Kurt had come in and out of the living room periodically to check on him and had been so disturbed at his lack of movement that he found himself continually checking the boy's pulse just to make sure he wasn't dead (_"or a zombie_," Finn insisted). He was just about to give in and set up a video camera so any movement belying the humanness of his stranger would be recorded and preserved for further study when he heard a shout and then a sudden silence.

"…Finn?" he called down warily. Finn was playing some game that had to do with army uniforms and killing people, so maybe…

Nothing. He strained his ears.

"_Finn?_" he called, voice rising.

Still nothing.

Kurt dropped the box of tapes he had been rooting through and bolted down the stairs. "Finn, so help me, if you don't say something right now—!"

His voice cut off and snapped back inside of him like a rubber band as he caught sight of the living room.

_What. The. _

The coffee table was tipped upside-down, resting overtop the armchair—which had also decided to play the part of the leaning tower and was toppled sideways onto the carpet. Kurt didn't even want to start taking inventory on the many stylish glass frames that had once populated that area.

It looked like a tornado had swept through the house. Or a particularly violent and specific gust of wind had attacked—

_John._

Kurt's eyes were magnetized to the couch. Was he–?

No. John was still asleep. In fact, he didn't look like he had moved at all. (Just like the previous fifteen times Kurt had come in to check on him.)

"Dude," Finn's breathless voice came from behind the armchair. "Dude. He just totally went all demonic and blew up the room!"

Kurt stared.

…_Of course_ he'd bring a hellish spirit into the house. That would be just his luck, wouldn't it?


	3. And We Ignore the Obvious

****Rating:** **PG - 13**  
><strong>Summary:<strong> **_Kurt took him in because it was cold outside, and he looked injured, and Kurt had an insatiable curiosity and wanted to find out how the hell the boy had ended up in his backyard in the first place (his being really attractive didn't hurt, either). It was like While You Were Sleeping, and Kurt was Sandra Bullock. Except with weird, unexplained phenomena. …And without Bill Pullman._**  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> **a little NBK and SLS, but AU in general**  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong>** I do not own anything.**  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>**mentions of scary movies, eventual (but not for a while) light exploration of issues of consent

**A/N: I rewrote this chapter maybe ten times before deciding to just give up and post it. I think it's a little slow at parts, but hopefully it's not too bad. Thank you for the feedback for those of you that have reviewed—it's really heartening! I hope you guys enjoy chapter two!**

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><p>Thirty minutes had passed since whatever had happened in the living room had happened. Or… well, Finn <em>claimed <em>had happened. This _was_ coming from the boy who believed Jesus had inhabited his grilled-cheese sandwich, after all (Kurt hadn't known whether to laugh or talk to Carole about committing her son to an institution when Finn had admitted that particular bit of information to him). During that time, Kurt and Finn had frantically cleaned up the living room to the best of their ability. Thankfully, none of the picture frames that had rested on the coffee table were particularly damaged (only one of them was cracked). The lamp, on the other hand… Kurt had asked Finn to run upstairs and get a new lightbulb that fit, which Finn did.

That left Kurt alone: standing in the middle of the living room, staring unabashedly at the sleeping form of John.

Kurt was more inclined to believe a freak windstorm had swept through the house than Finn's theory that the explosive gusts of wind that had toppled over the contents of the room had somehow emanated from John. But even with his skepticism, it was hard to ignore the fact that John looked _different_, suddenly. Kurt could have sworn his skin had been super pale, but looking at him now, he was a healthy olive tone. And the circles under his eyes had disappeared. He looked _healthy_, which… Kurt wasn't a doctor, but after so recently living through the repercussions of a heart-attack with his dad, he knew there was no such thing as a sudden, miraculous recovery.

But John was, miraculously, recovered.

Kurt eyes trailed down the prone body on the couch, and he couldn't stop himself from moving closer. Sitting gingerly by John's arm, Kurt leaned over his face, inspecting it for any signs of trauma or injury. It couldn't have just _all _gone away, just like that. It wasn't possible.

…Was it?

He leaned closer, slightly intoxicated by the scent of oak and… rain?… that enveloped the boy. Now that his face looked significantly more serene, and his skin was no longer tinged slightly yellow, he was even more beautiful than the wavering flashlight had revealed last night. Kurt moved even closer, drawn to the impossibly perfect shapes John's eyelashes created against his skin.

It wasn't like Kurt was going to kiss him or anything—that was way too Snow White for his tastes and, if he was being honest with himself, he was never comfortable with the dubious state of consent that permeated that movie, anyway. But it wasn't like he couldn't look. John wasn't awake, anyway.

…Except for the part where he _totally was!_

Oh, shi—

Kurt let out a strangled scream that might have sounded like Finn's name (but it _wasn't_, he would later insist, because he can handle himself just fine without Finn's help _thank you very much_) and his grip on the couch slipped. He tried to jerk backwards as John suddenly moved upwards and they ended up a pile of arms and aching heads until Kurt managed to safely extricate himself from the couch. He swallowed convulsively as John clutched the couch arm in a death grip, eyes darting wildly around the room (they were an amber or a hazel color that would have been slightly disappointing if Kurt weren't completely enthralled by the way that they seemed to draw in the light).

"Ow," John said quietly, rubbing his head.

Oh, he was an understater.

Great.

He moved forward, almost as if he were about to get up off the couch, but—suddenly—he stopped himself. Taking in the room more slowly, he furrowed his brow.

"I'm in a house…" he said slowly, as if that was surprising. Melted caramel eyes swept the room, settling on Kurt. "Your house?" he asked.

Speaking was a little too difficult a task to accomplish at the moment, so Kurt settled on nodding.

"Oh." Jo—_the boy_ raised his eyebrows. "I—"

Hisvoice suddenly cut off, and heblinked, moving sharply to face Kurt full-on. Kurt swallowed as the boy's eyes met his, something intense and _different _in their depths.

Kurt was bolted to the carpet.

"Sorry," the boy breathed, and his voice was the softest of intimacies. "Do I know…?"

Kurt felt like a trapped deer in the amber headlights that were suddenly locked on him.

Those eyes—

It was like he was staring into a hall of mirrors.

He _knew_ those eyes.

…But no, he didn't, really. That was stupid. _Why did he think…?_

Kurt forgot how to blink. He only knew staring. They were marble together. Glass.

Stuck in one moment.

Until a thunderstorming stampede of elephants hit the stairs, and Finn appeared breathless in the doorway of the kitchen, effectively shattering the world.

"Did he wake up?" Finn shouted, making the boy literally _jump_ and turn lightning fast—faster than should have been humanly possible—eye contact broken, arm raised in a strange, protective—

Finn raised his hands in surrender.

"Oh, okay," he stumbled haltingly over his words. "I'm guessing that's a yes."

The boy shook his head slightly and relaxed. Kurt let out the breath that had been clamoring to leave his mouth.

"Sorry," said the boy, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture entirely too endearing for his own good. "That was awkward. Wow. Uh—" The boy sat up straighter (if that was even possible) and…

Kurt couldn't explain it.

He _transformed._

An aura of confidence was suddenly projecting from the boy, a warmth and a maturity that was a huge change from the wild, strange… whatever he had been beforehand. Kurt looked at Finn to make sure he had also registered that sudden disturbing adjustment, but frowned when he noticed his step-brother didn't seem too bothered.

"Where are my manners?" The boy said. He got up off the couch—thoughtlessly, it seemed, as the next minute his knees were buckling underneath him and Kurt was running to catch his fall.

"Thanks," the boy said, entirely too much breath in his voice. He looked down at Kurt's hand around his waist. "You're stronger than you look," he confided.

"Yeah, I get that a lot," Kurt told him. Which wasn't _entirely_ true, as he hadn't heard that from anyone since he had quit the Cheerios, but, whatever. He chanced a cautious glance at the boy's eyes—

They were normal.

No weird multiplied mirror effect. No endless depths of honey-colored wildness. Just… just regular eyes.

…Huh.

The boy was looking at him strangely, his head tilted slightly as if listening to something.

"You can let me go now," he said.

"Oh!" Kurt jumped. Suddenly self-conscious at their proximity, Kurt set him gently back down on the couch and stood up, backing away what he deemed to be a substantial amount. He devoted himself to studying the pattern on the couch cushions: little purple flowers becoming friendly with triangles, which, _really Carole?_

"Sorry," he said.

"It's not a problem," the boy grinned. Kurt felt his knees go a little weak.

Dear god.

He was charming, too.

"My name's Blaine," the boy said, amusement coloring his voice in slightly deeper tones. He held out his hand. Kurt shook it, raising an eyebrow.

"_Blaine_?" someone used his mouth to ask. _That _was his name?

Blaine dipped his head in assent. (Oh well._ No one's perfect.)_

"I'm Kurt," Kurt told him, smiling slightly (Blaine's happiness was infectious). "And that's Finn," Kurt gestured to the kitchen door. Blaine smiled over at Finn—who had moved closer to the couch ("Hey, man!")—and shook hands with him.

"It's nice to meet you both," Blaine said pleasantly. He glanced back at Kurt (with a lingering gaze. There was definitely some lingering going on, and that _wasn't_ wishful thinking, dammit!).

"So!" he exhaled loudly. "I'm in a _house_!" Blaine grinned widely, looking around with something that looked like amazement (but couldn't be, because who would be amazed at being in a house?). Kurt and Finn traded looks.

Blaine grinned at them. "Too excited?" he asked.

"A little," Finn told him.

"Sorry," Blaine seemed unable to do anything but grin. "I just didn't expect this. This is… This is a really, really _great_, unexpected development."

Kurt must have been wearing an incredibly disparaging expression on his face, because all he could think while listening to Blaine was: _this was not at all how Peter Callaghan acted when _he_ woke up._ How come Sandra Bullock got all the sane men and Kurt got all the crazy ones who thought houses were the best thing since Prada handbags?

_Oh my god, what if Blaine was homeless?_

"… on't know," Finn was shrugging. "Ask Kurt." Kurt blinked and snapped back to focus.

"Ask me what?" he turned to Finn.

"Why he's in our house." Finn said (repeated?). "He wants to know."

Kurt looked at Blaine, who flashed him a smile. A crazy intruder from his backyard, yes. But damn if he wasn't still unfairly attractive.

"I found you lying outside under the oak tree last night," Kurt explained, gesturing to said tree. "It was cold, so I brought you inside."

Blaine turned to look where Kurt had pointed to, a solemn expression crossing his face. He hummed softly in thought. Kurt thought he caught _"must have fallen"_ escaping from Blaine's lips, but they slipped through his fingers into the air before he could examine them more closely. Blaine took a visible breath.

"Well," he began, louder and to the room. "I guess we have ourselves a _bit_ of an awkward situation here."

He turned to face Kurt and Finn, unapologetically amiable.

"You see," he continued, smiling softly. "I've run away. And I'm afraid I can't go back."

He shrugged slightly.

"Ever," he added.

Kurt felt his stomach pirouette.


	4. A Brief Interruption

****Rating:** **PG - 13**  
><strong>Summary:<strong> **_Kurt took him in because it was cold outside, and he looked injured, and Kurt had an insatiable curiosity and wanted to find out how the hell the boy had ended up in his backyard in the first place (his being really attractive didn't hurt, either). It was like While You Were Sleeping, and Kurt was Sandra Bullock. Except with weird, unexplained phenomena. …And without Bill Pullman._**  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> **a little NBK and SLS, but AU in general**  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong>** I do not own anything.**  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>**mentions of scary movies, eventual (but not for a while) light exploration of issues of consent  
><strong>AN:** **Don't fret, Chapter Three is coming very soon! Our story has just been interrupted a little. Thank you all for your kind words of encouragement. :) Just as a warning, there will eventually be some angst in this story-it won't be the main point of the story and I plan to keep Kurt's inner voice as snarky as ever, but the world I set up has become a little dark. As it is wont to happen in my stories... I hope that doesn't drive you all off!  
><strong>

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><p>Before leftovers were called leftovers, they were called relics. And, before that: <em>relief<em>.

* * *

><p><em>"No."<em>

_"You're being childish."_

_"I said no, David. And you can tell Wes to stop making you ask."_

_"Running away doesn't solve anything._

_…_

_"Please. We're just worried."_

_"Then alert the faculty. I'm sure they'll stop me."_

_"Blaine—"_

_"I can't._

__…__

_"I…_

__…__

_" I'm sorry, I just… I _can't_."_

_"If you do this, you put all of us in danger._

_…_

_…_

_"Blaine."_

_"Don't. Please. Please."_

_"Blaine."_

_"David, don't—!"_

_"Stay."_

_…_

_"That's not fair. You know that's not fair."_

_"If it's the only way to keep you here, then I think it's the fairest thing in the world."_

_"Wes told you to, didn't he? That's why he sent you this time, instead of coming to talk to me himself. Plotting bastard."_

_"He's worried about you—"_

_"If he were so worried, he would be helping me leave."_

_"You don't know what's out there, Blaine."_

_"But I know what's in here! I—Maybe _you_ could, maybe you, or Wes, or Jeff, or—god, maybe _Jeremiah_ could, I don't know! But I—"_

_…_

_"You're being selfish."_

_"I can't—do it—David. I can't. _I can't_."_

__…__

_"Don't stay, then. Go."_

___…___

…

_"…Thank you."_

_"I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it for us._

__…__

_…_

_"Just don't come back. If you leave and they find you trying to come back… just… just don't come back."_

_"… I never planned to."_


	5. I'll Feed Him and Walk Him and Everythng

****Rating:** **PG - 13**  
><strong>Summary:<strong> **_Kurt took him in because it was cold outside, and he looked injured, and Kurt had an insatiable curiosity and wanted to find out how the hell the boy had ended up in his backyard in the first place (his being really attractive didn't hurt, either). It was like While You Were Sleeping, and Kurt was Sandra Bullock. Except with weird, unexplained phenomena. …And without Bill Pullman._**  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> **a little NBK and SLS, but AU in general**  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong>** I do not own anything.**  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>**mentions of scary movies, eventual (but not for a while) light exploration of issues of consent

**A/N: Chapter Three is here! Hooray! The next chapter is where the fun begins, kids. I can't wait!**

* * *

><p>"Let me make sure I'm getting this. You just brought him inside. From off the street."<p>

"He was in our _backyard_. And it was cold outside, I didn't think—"

"Kurt, that was very irresponsible of you. What if this guy had decided to attack you? Or robbed the house while you were sleeping? You know, you should have at least woken up me or Carole. You can't be so careless, bud."

Kurt sighed and glanced up at Finn, who had been completely inept at supporting him and was currently doing his best to look appropriately chastised. So much for having his back.

"Dad," Kurt started, attempting a strict but also slightly humbled tone. "Look: He's run away. He doesn't have anywhere to go back to."

His dad gave him a steady look, unimpressed. "We don't even know this boy," he said. Finn nodded (_the traitor_) and Burt continued, "The right thing to do would be to call the police."

Oh no, no, not fair, not when Kurt might have finally found a (slightly insane) Prince Charming! Kurt opened his mouth to snap out something appropriately barbed before thinking better of it.

_Rational. Mature. Be mature about this, Kurt._

"Dad, please?" Kurt tried, attempting to look as adult as possible. "He's hurt. I don't want to put that kind of stress on him while he's injured." It was true. Blaine limped a little bit when he walked, and who knew _what _was going on with whatever illness he had held previously that had kept him asleep. Kurt was shocked the boy could stand at all. "At least let him stay here until he feels better?"

Finn chose that moment to switch sides. "He took forever to wake up," he told Burt. "He _is_ really hurt."

Kurt sent him a quick thank you glance, even if he _had_ been without an army for the majority of the conversation.

Burt looked reluctant. "Boys, I understand you want to help him, but he isn't some injured bird you found on the porch step. This is a human being, with a whole history to him that we know nothing about. We don't know what we'll be getting into just taking him in like this. Do you even know what he's running away from?"

Kurt's eyes traveled past his dad and out the glass door, where Blaine stood underneath the oak tree. He had been standing there for half an hour already, head craned backwards and studying the branches above his head as if they were the most interesting things he had ever seen. Kurt wanted _so much_ to take another peak at his eyes; his gaze was so intense Kurt was almost surprised that none of the dying leaves he was looking at had caught fire.

Kurt let himself rake down the boy's body—all rigid lines and worry. The image of tanned fingers turning white from a terrified grip on the couch arm flashed across his brain.

"He's asking for our help," Kurt said softly. "I know it's risky, Dad, but you didn't see him. The way he acted when he woke up… " Kurt shifted his gaze to look at his father, only to find himself confronted with a strangely gentle expression he hadn't expected. His words ran away in surprise.

"You've always been kind, even as a kid," was all his dad said.

Finn shifted slightly next to Kurt, and Burt cleared his throat.

"Okay," he said.

Kurt's eyes widened.

"We'll help him out," his dad continued. "For a little while." Kurt thought that last was supposed to be heard only by Burt Hummel, but he was too busy grinning and hugging his dad and thanking him profusely to care. Finn raised his hand for a high five and Kurt even decided to grant him one, such was his happiness.

"I'll go tell him!" He walked with excitement to the backyard (under no circumstances did he _skip, _despite what Finn later claimed). Blaine was still standing, eerily still, staring up at the branches of the trees.

Kurt slowed as he neared him, shivering a little in the crisp autumn air. He glanced up to see what Blaine was looking at, tilting his head and coming to a stop next to his mysterious stranger.

Twisted branches. Gold leaves, peppered with blood red accents. Not his favorite combination, but there was something to be said for Mother Nature's flair.

"…I'm not seeing anything particularly engrossing," he whispered to Blaine.

Blaine leaned closer, eyes still searching upward, and Kurt was briefly overwhelmed at the fact that they were both conscious and still somehow nearer than a foot away from each other.

"I'm looking for something in particular," Blaine whispered back.

Kurt blinked and turned to him. "What?" he asked. He tried, unobtrusively, to get another glimpse of those eyes—see what shapes they were forming—but the angle was all wrong and he couldn't see without being obvious about it.

"My way out," Blaine replied, the beginnings of a frown starting to tug on his features. Worry pulled him back like a spring and Kurt watched as it gathered up energy behind his eyes, waiting for some internal signal. It must have sounded, because Blaine was now propelling forward, circling the tree and looking up—always up. "You said you found me underneath this tree, right?" he called to Kurt. Kurt moved to get a better look at whatever Blaine was doing.

"Ye-es," he answered warily, watching as Blaine's hands ran up and then down the bark, feeling for… something. Kurt raised an eyebrow. He pointed to the place he had found Blaine. "You were right—"

A knife of fear swung like a guillotine through his voice.

_Holy…_

His body pulled taut as he stared with wide eyes at the ground.

That was blood.

That was dried blood.

That was _a lot of dried blood._

"Blaine…" his voice strained to slip through the closing of his throat, coming out smaller and thinner than when it had been formed. "That's…"

_That was from Blaine._ It had to be. Kurt tried to swallow against the knot of dread rising in his esophagus. There was so much blood. He had lost so much blood. _How was he still standing?_ How had Blaine ever woken up? _There was so much blood!_

Something cracked behind him and Kurt whirled around, heart punching against his chest—to catch Blaine's slightly widened eyes move to his, Blaine's hand falling from his head. "What's wrong?" Blaine asked.

Eyes warm and honey-sweet. Luminous in the setting sun. But normal.

Kurt tried to speak, but he could only trace words into the air.

Blaine's expression was slowly painted with concern. "Kurt, what's wrong?" he repeated, moving closer. Kurt's stomach clenched and he looked back toward the ground, where—

He blinked.

Where nothing was there. No blood. Not even any dead grass or a pile of brownish-red leaves.

Just the shadow of branches on the ground.

…Oh _wow_, Kurt Hummel. Way to make an ass out of yourself. He had been getting less sleep than he had thought.

Kurt turned back to look at Blaine, who was watching him intently, face a mask of perfect confusion.

"It's nothing," Kurt said lightly. "Just jumping at shadows." _Literally. _He took a breath and shook himself slightly, then pointed at the area of his delusions. "That's where I found you."

Blaine placed a firm hand on his elbow (Kurt tensed because _oh, hello, that was unpredicted_) and moved around him slightly, scouring the ground that sprawled in front of Kurt's legs. He looked up at the branches, and then back down at the ground. Up at the branches. Down at the ground. Up. Down. Up—

"Okay, seriously, _what _are you looking for?" Kurt interrupted. "You're making me dizzy."

Blaine glanced back at Kurt before turning his attention back to the tree above them. After a few minutes of silence, his shoulders slumped. "Nothing," he sighed, his brow furrowed. "I think I've lost it. Or broken it. One of the two." Blaine looked at Kurt and sent him a small and completely fake smile. Kurt would have been able to see through it from the other end of a football field. "It's all right, though, I'll find another way to leave," he told Kurt. "Don't worry." Blaine winked at him and patted him on the arm, finally letting go of his elbow.

Kurt was frozen for a few seconds, a little in awe at the completely casual way Blaine had touched him. Who did that?Strange boys with tree-fixations did that. _And boys who were flirting with you._ They did that, too. They did that a lot, actually; there was a lot of touching involved when a boy liked you. Kurt knew, because no boys liked him except, apparently, Karofsky, and no boys except Karofsky touched him. In fact, Karofsky touched him _all the time_.

And that wasn't really something Kurt wanted to think about right now, so maybe—

_Wait. Hold on._

Blaine was heading toward the house before Kurt processed what he said.

"I'm not!" he called after him. Blaine turned around, a question pulling at his features. "I'm not worried," Kurt elaborated. Blaine cocked his head warily. "You don't have to leave, Blaine."

Something sparked to life in those hazel eyes.

"Sorry?" Blaine breathed.

Kurt felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You don't have to leave," he repeated. "Dad said you can stay."

For a second, it seemed like Blaine wasn't breathing. Then, he huffed out a laugh, and suddenly he was not so rigid, not so many straight lines. He gave Kurt a dazzling grin that lit up his entire face, his mouth slightly open as if still in shock. "Great!" he cried, and if relief had an image in the dictionary, it would be a picture of a black-haired, golden-eyed boy. "That's—Wow! That's—that's amazingly kind of you, Kurt, I—_thank _you!"

"It's not a problem," Kurt told him, and that was an honest truth. Kurt didn't know Blaine well enough to have been able to tell what _lost_ looked like when he wore it, but now that he was wearing _found_, it was easy enough to spot what it was replacing. Kurt knew they were doing the right thing.

"Come on inside," Kurt said, walking toward Blaine and thus, the house. "I'll show you around." He brought his hand up to gesture Blaine inside—

But instead of gesturing, it kind of wrapped around another hand, instead. Kurt blinked as he stared down at the olive-toned fingers cupping his palm.

That was unexpected.

But… okay.

Kurt didn't notice the small smile that tickled his lips until Finn pointed it out to him forty minutes later.


	6. The Benefits of Heatray Vision: Part One

****Rating:** **PG - 13**  
><strong>Summary:<strong> **_Kurt took him in because it was cold outside, and he looked injured, and Kurt had an insatiable curiosity and wanted to find out how the hell the boy had ended up in his backyard in the first place (his being really attractive didn't hurt, either). It was like While You Were Sleeping, and Kurt was Sandra Bullock. Except with weird, unexplained phenomena. …And without Bill Pullman._**  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> **a little NBK and SLS, but AU in general**  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong>** I do not own anything.**  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>**mentions of scary movies, eventual (but not for a while) light exploration of issues of consent

**A/N: I am so sorry this took so long! Work backed me up, and then I had to start the chapter at an earlier point than I intended, because Kurt and Blaine weren't participating with me. So, the_ next_ part is where the fun begins. I lied. That part will be up tonight and/or tomorrow. Thank you to those of you who have been so wonderful and are reviewing my work. It means so much. For the rest, don't be shy, say hi! Although I love you all equally whether you comment or not!**

* * *

><p><em>Oh dear God.<em>

Kurt gazed in horror at the figure in front of him.

"_Please_ tell me that's not what you're planning on wearing to school today," he said.

Finn blinked at him blearily, somehow swallowing an entire piece of toast in one bite as he did so. Kurt grimaced.

"Why, what's wrong with it?" Finn asked around the bread filling his mouth.

Kurt gave him a very pointed once-over. Specifically, he gave the bright orange flannel Finn was wearing a very pointed once-over.

"Halloween was three weeks ago, Finn," he stated.

Finn rolled his eyes. "I like orange," he said with equal firmness. "And not everyone has to wear twenty-four shirts at the same time."

It was _three _shirts and it was called _layering_. Kurt's teeth clenched in some subconscious wish to stop himself from escalating what was sure to be another argument about his superior fashion sense. Today was going to be a horrible day anyway; there was no sense in starting the misery ahead of schedule. He looked to the ceiling for guidance, and his eye caught sight of dark blue, moving by the stairwell. Turning, his brows furrowed as he recognized Blaine, making his way quietly past the banister and into the kitchen (looking as wonderful in Kurt's clothes as he always did—and for the fifteenth time this week, Kurt thanked the empty skies above that someone else in this house besides him had a taste for fashion).

"What are you doing up?" Kurt asked, surprised. "It's six in the morning!" He was about to berate Finn for talking too loudly and forgetting that there were, in point of fact, _other_ members of this household, when Blaine shot him a grin.

"Habit," he said simply, shrugging. Kurt stared, watching as Blaine walked up to the bread box and took out a few slices, placing them in the toaster. He _looked_ like he was fully awake… Kurt wondered what kind of unhappy life he would have to lead in order to make waking up every day at six in the morning a habit. Then he realized he _did _make waking up every day at six in the morning a habit.

And he dropped that line of questioning.

_Really, Kurt. Tone it down. _

Blaine had only been officially with them for three days (time spent unconscious on the couch didn't count as valid in the official record, according to Kurt, due to the fact that Blaine had been unconscious and thus unaware of his surroundings at the time and Kurt had been positive his name was John). Three days, and Kurt had found himself scrutinizing Blaine's every move with increasing intensity. It was honestly starting to scare him. He knew he could be a little obsessive at times—his misguided but stubborn attempts at wooing Finn were evidence to that—but even _he_ could recognize his interest in Blaine was starting to border the sociopathic. He just couldn't seem to stop himself from overanalyzing. Blaine was such a _mystery_, and—

"Are you two going into school?" Blaine asked, a glint in his eye that looked disturbingly like excitement.

–And _that! Like that! _Who in their right mind would be excited about the prospect of attending classes with unsympathetically idiotic peers? Nobody! School was about as exciting as _being in a house_—which, for the record? _Wasn't exciting._ In any sense of the word. And yet it was something Blaine seemed to be unnaturally enthused about. He didn't even bother to hide his excitement about the bathroom connected to Kurt's room, or the garage Kurt's dad had taken him to yesterday, or the small futon couch Burt and Carole set up for him to sleep on. His eyes practically glowed with happiness every time he happened upon something that reminded him of the fact he was currently under a roof. Kurt was baffled. Where the hell had Blaine lived before, a sewer? _What was so exciting about a house?_

"It's just school," Kurt said blankly. He followed the careful movements of Blaine's fingers as he buttered his toast. His hands looked strong, sculpted smooth and perfect out of clay. Blaine was solid–not lanky like Finn, or looming like Puck or Karo–

He was compact, and he was solid, and yet there was something soft and warm about him. His movements were deliberate and dictated by care. Kurt imagined hugging Blaine. He wondered what it would feel like.

"Yeah," Finn grumbled, and Kurt pulled himself out of his thoughts and back to the present. "School."

Kurt knew he was thinking about seeing Rachel today; they were currently not on speaking terms (something about cheating and Santana that Mercedes knew all the details about). Finn frowned and picked at his toast. Blaine's smile dimmed slightly as he did so, and his eyes gentled. He placed his hand briefly on top of Finn's, and Kurt held his breath under the wave of jealousy that broke over him when their eyes met. Something intimate, personal, passed between them and Finn seemed to brighten as Blaine took his hand away and turned back to the toaster.

Kurt raised an eyebrow and tried desperately not to glare.

As far as he knew, Blaine didn't know anything about what had happened between Rachel and Finn. So,_ what the hell had that been?_

Finn drained his glass of milk and pushed off the kitchen island. "We should go, we're going to be late!" he told Kurt with an energy that had been noticeably absent before. Kurt's eyes slid without his permission to Blaine—who shrugged and smiled, looking for all intents and purposes like the most innocent of angels.

Kurt called bullshit.

"We're going to be late," Kurt repeated to Blaine, as if there were a secret message in between the words that only Blaine could decode. Blaine just smiled.

"Maybe I can go with you one of these days," he said in response. A laugh surprised its way out of Kurt's mouth. Images flashed through his head of Karofsky pushing him against the lockers; leering at him in the cafeteria; glaring from across the hall.

A-ha. Funny. But no. No. Blaine was _never_ going to come to school with him.

_Lips rough and desperate against his own, the smell of sweat and feet and Axe body wash stinging his—_

Ever.

"Maybe," he said.

Blaine's grin had dropped, his eyes intensely focused on Kurt. There was a knowledge in his eyes that dripped slowly down Kurt's throat and churned in the waters of his stomach. A thrill shivered through his limbs. He hadn't told Blaine anything about Karofsky. He hadn't told _anyone _anything about Karofsky.

So why did it feel like Blaine suddenly knew _everything_ about Karofsky?

Blaine reached out. To brush hands, or pat his shoulder, or… _it was that constant stream of contact he always initiated, that was it, it was throwing Kurt off_—and today was going to be hard enough as it was, he couldn't start the day disoriented or distracted by Blaine and his _touching_ (and did that have to sound as illicit as it did?)—he had to focus.

Kurt stepped away before Blaine's hand reached him, and Blaine let his hand drop, a question in his eyes. Kurt's lips twitched upward in a brief parody of a smile before he deemed it a lost cause. "See you later," he said awkwardly and he turned, heading briskly for the door.

But just because he wasn't looking didn't mean he wasn't acutely aware of Blaine's gaze on him. His back remained rigid under the feathers of scrutiny that lightly tickled his skin.

…Maybe his obsession wasn't _entirely_ one-sided.

Finn honked the horn just as Kurt stepped out of the house. Kurt winced, getting into the car before Finn decided to wake up the entire neighborhood.

—–-

The car ride was tense. Finn sat silently when they pulled into the school parking lot, watching as Kurt turned off the car and remaining in his seat and the keys left the ignition. Kurt looked at him in askance.

"I'm sorry I made fun of your shirts," he finally muttered.

Kurt blinked and looked away, out at the parking lot. His eyes landed on a crowd of red and white jackets casually leaning against the dumpster in front of the school.

"I'm sorry for pointing out your poor clothing choices," he replied. "I understand not everyone appreciates good fashion advice, and you are free to wear hideous clothing as you so choose."

Finn gave Kurt a hard stare. Then, he let out a frustrated sigh and got out of the car, slamming the door.

Kurt remained sitting, staring at the crowd of jocks. He wondered if he tried hard enough, whether he could drill a hole through David Karofsky's skull with just his eyes. Or set the dumpster on fire with his mind while the football team were still leaning against it. Kurt imagined their red and white jackets being forever tarnished black from the ash and smoke.

McKinley's finest.

Sucking in a breath, Kurt steeled himself and opened the door.

He would have to properly apologize to Finn later. It wasn't him he has angry with.

—–-

Mercedes wasted no time with pleasantries when they met up for their routine walk to lunch. Falling into step beside him, she linked her arm through his and grinned conspiratorially.

"So how is Peter Callaghan this morning?" she asked _(and this was totally the reason they were friends, because he hadn't told her about his convoluted metaphors for Blaine and she still came up with the same ones anyway)._ Kurt wasn't surprised Mercedes had found out—she knew everything. Still, he couldn't stop the slight disappointment that he wouldn't be able to keep Blaine a secret of the house for longer. Swallowing it down, he considered her question. How was Blaine, really? Kurt thought of intense stares and inappropriate enthusiasm. He was helpless to stop the smile that spread across his face.

"You look fabulous today," he told her. She smacked his arm.

"Don't avoid the subject," she said. "I heard from Quinn who heard from Sam that Finn was talking about a boy you guys took in over the weekend. He was in a coma or something? Don't even get me started on why I didn't hear all this from you first. I want to know _details_, boy! Is he cute? Is he gay? Have you started a wild and passionate affair behind the couch?"

"Stop quoting my own words back to me," Kurt knocked her shoulder with his playfully. "He's…" He trailed off and she leaned closer. "He's okay," Kurt said, shrugging and doing an excellent job of feigning indifference (if he said so himself). Mercedes' eyes narrowed.

"Just _'okay'_?" she pressed.

Kurt glanced around the hallway, making certain nothing red was in his immediate field of vision. Satisfied, he turned to Mercedes. She looked at him with barely-concealed impatience.

"Okay!" it exploded out of his mouth, "He's gorgeous." Mercedes did a strange little squeal and jumped up and down a little. Kurt barely restrained himself from doing the same. "I found him lying in the backyard in the middle of the night, and I couldn't just leave him there, so I took him inside. He's old-fashioned charming, Mercedes, like he was brought up in one of those Tracey-Hepburn movies, and his _eyes _are just…" Hazel. Warm…

Familiar.

_Amber-glassed eternity. Staring into a hall of mirrors…_

He didn't realize he had spaced out until he noticed they had stopped walking. Blinking, he looked over at Mercedes, who was wearing a knowing grin. Kurt cleared his throat. "His smile seriously makes you melt," the words tripped over his teeth in their haste the get out, "and you know how much I hate clichés." He _tittered_, awkwardly and obviously _not_ a real laugh, and continued on down the hall to the cafeteria before he embarrassed himself further.

"Oh, this is perfect. Boy's got a crush!" Mercedes sang as she sauntered to catch up with him. "Does he seem interested?"

Kurt thought of holding hands, blinding smiles, and small, sure touches to his knee—his elbow—the small of his back.

"I think so," he confided with a small, secretive smile as they entered the cafeteria.

Looking up, his eyes snagged on a letterman jacket. A wink. Kurt felt the blood drain from his face.

"Hey, why don't we eat in the choir room today?" Kurt heard himself asking Mercedes breathlessly. "I haven't picked my song for Glee club yet, and I'd like your opinion on a potential ballad."

Mercedes looked apologetic. "Oh, sorry, boo, I told Tina we'd meet up with her in the cafeteria and help her study for her history test. Maybe if we have time after, we can head to the choir room?"

A woodpecker was drilling a hole inside his chest the longer he stayed in the cafeteria. He couldn't drag his attention away from the table where Karofsky was sitting—his unwanted gaze crawling like slick worms down Kurt's neck. No, he really couldn't stay in this room. He really—he _really _couldn't stay in this room.

"I think I'm going to go anyway," Kurt said, careful to keep his voice light. "I should really work on that song. I'll see you in Glee!"

He didn't wait for Mercedes to reply—didn't even grab a salad or anything before he left—he just turned with deliberate casualness and walked with careful purpose out the door.

In the back of his mind, he wondered if he was ever going to be able leave a room from this point forward without feeling someone else's gaze on him.

If Karofsky tried hard enough, he could probably drill a hole into Kurt's skull with just his eyes.


	7. The Benefits of Heatray Vision: Part Two

****Rating:** **PG - 13**  
><strong>Summary:<strong> **_Kurt took him in because it was cold outside, and he looked injured, and Kurt had an insatiable curiosity and wanted to find out how the hell the boy had ended up in his backyard in the first place (his being really attractive didn't hurt, either). It was like While You Were Sleeping, and Kurt was Sandra Bullock. Except with weird, unexplained phenomena. …And without Bill Pullman._**  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> **a little NBK and SLS, but AU in general**  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong>** I do not own anything.**  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>**mentions of scary movies, eventual (but not for a while) light exploration of issues of consent

**A/N: And… Part B!**

* * *

><p>Kurt opened the front door and stepped, relieved, into the quiet of the house. The end of another school day. Finally.<p>

It was just him and Blaine now. Finn was at football practice for another hour, after which he was most likely headed over to Puck's to take out his frustration with Rachel's ongoing silent treatment by blowing up a horrendously large amount of computer-generated army men who were just doing their job. Kurt had offered a much more constructive way to relieve Finn's tension as an apology for the way he'd acted with Finn earlier in the day—but for reasons unknown to Kurt, Finn had vehemently turned down the offer to redecorate his bedroom, once again restating his love for the color orange (Kurt had absolutely nothing against the color orange, thank you very much. He _did_ have a problem with _neon pumpkin_, which was the only way he could describe the sickeningly bright color of Finn's room, and he honestly didn't understand how Finn could sleep at night with his walls slathered in it).

As he started to slip his messenger bag off from around his shoulders, Kurt considered the probability of getting Blaine to sing with him today. A few flirty duets might get the message across that Kurt was free and interested in a much less awkward way than any unrehearsed flirting could. Perhaps he could try out a few Glee club ideas with him, get his opinion on the ballad Kurt had chosen for tomorrow…

_"…ot going back…"_ a muffled voice floated across the room. Kurt smiled and walked curiously into the living room, trying to figure out what movie it was that Blaine was watching today. He loved watching Blaine watch movies—he was so expressive and so immersed in the story.

Kurt frowned when he saw the black tv set—off.

Huh. Was his dad home early?

_"…would do… fitwer me…"_

Something inside his chest twisted weirdly, and a bubble of foreboding pushed its way up his throat. Kurt clenched the strap of the bag he still held in his fisting hands and headed cautiously to the kitchen.

"Blaine?" he breathed, his voice sounding much too loud in the echoing silence of the rest of the house. "Are you in here?"

The bubble fluttered against the walls of his throat, speeding his breathing and echoing the beat his heart was hammering against his rib cage. Something outside the glass doors caught his eye and his legs moved against a punishing current, dragging him slowly towards the back yard. _Please be okay, please be okay, please be okay…_

Kurt's bag dropped out of suddenly slack hands. His eyes widened.

There was a stranger in his backyard. There was a stranger in his backyard and he was doing something to Blaine, he was—

Blaine was moving fast and limbs became blurs and then the stranger was _slamming_ Blaine up against the oak tree, using so much force Blaine looked _molded_ into the bark—and suddenly so, so small. Kurt saw the muscles and veins in Blaine's neck and arms standing out in vivid relief, carved against his skin and trembling with exertion as he fought to keep the stranger from pressing him even closer.

"Stop—Flint—!" Blaine's breath hitched as the boy did—_something_—clawed his hand and—and his whole body _shook._ "S_top!_" His voice was strained air that time but Kurt still heard it. Somewhere far away and still too close, a locker was slamming, and the air echoed with the sickening smack of a forced kiss.

The soles of Kurt's shoes were melted rubber fused to the floor.

"I wouldn't have left!" the boy snarled and his hand _twisted_, palm flat and pressing against Blaine's stomach. Blaine's face contorted into a silent scream. "If it was me, I wouldn't have left!"

Blaine's arm slipped, and the boy pressed him in closer and Blaine gasped and—

Kurt had to move, he had to _move,_ and he slid the door open with enough force to probably break it as he cried:

"HEY!"

The boy let go and he snapped his head around, staring in surprise at the interruption.

Blaine plummeted boneless to the ground.

Kurt opened his mouth to say something heroic and probably derogatory–and then realized he couldn't figure out which words to use and so closed it again.

So… Stop the stranger. Check.

He was kind of at a loss as to what to do now.

Apparently the stranger was not. "_This_ is who you're staying with?" the boy asked incredulously. Kurt wasn't sure whether he was supposed to feel offended or not. Considering this boy had just tried to kill the potential future love of his life, he figured it would be a safe bet to settle on offended.

Blaine, not as dead as he looked, had managed to maneuver himself onto his hands and knees, and was currently staring up with shining eyes at his highly-fashionable savior. (_This was certainly one way to win his affection_)

"Kurt," he panted. "Oh, crap."

…Okay.

Not exactly the reaction Kurt was expecting.

Blaine turned to his friend who had just tried to kill him (or something). "You should go," he said steadily (or as steadily as he could, considering he was still so out of breath). "Before Wes finds out you were here."

"I'm not afraid of Wes," the boy said, but he still started moving away. Blaine gave him a level stare. "This isn't over, Blaine," he asserted. "I'm not the only one."

"Yes," Blaine said firmly. "Yes, it really is."

Kurt had to give Blaine props. He would have been very intimidating if he weren't still on all fours trying to catch his breath.

The stranger moved around to the front of the house and left them in the backyard.

Kurt looked at Blaine. Blaine looked at Kurt.

They just kind of stared at each other.

They were still just kind of staring at each other about three minutes later, when Blaine seemed to realize he was still on his hands and knees and still having a little trouble breathing.

"Could you help me up?" he asked abruptly. Kurt blinked.

"Oh! Sorry."

Awkwardly, he walked up to the tree. Putting Blaine's arm around his shoulders, he slowly helped lift him to his feet. Blaine suddenly jerked downward, his legs giving out, and Kurt wrapped a firm arm around his waist to keep him upright.

He tried not to let himself be too aware of the searing line of heat that was the press of the sides of their bodies, flush against each other. Because that would be inappropriate at a time like this.

Blaine tripped and fell further against Kurt, his breath puffing a light caress across Kurt's neck.

Yeah.

Really inappropriate. At a time like this.

Kurt cleared his throat and focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on getting Blaine inside.

The walk remained silent. Curiosity and worry and fear and a terrifying kind of expectation clashed inside of Kurt, a chaotic tornado forming questions that pressed insistently against his lips, against the oppressive silence, which pressed back, keeping them locked behind his teeth. What had just happened? Who was that boy? Why was he here? What had he been doing to you?

_Who are you?_

Kurt opened the door and helped Blaine sit down on the lazy boy in the living room; and as he let his arms fall away from Blaine's back, he couldn't help but wonder if a hug would have felt like something close to that. A pang of longing knifed into his chest.

He started to step away when Blaine's hand shot out, clawing around his arm and pulling him back in—and Kurt tripped, falling a little before he caught himself on the arm of the chair, breath hitching because—_oh._

_Close._

"Do me another favor?" Blaine breathed. The words tickled Kurt's lips and he couldn't move his attention from the mouth in front of him. Lips. His lips were inchesfrom Kurt's own and Kurt was holding his breath, his head spinning, waiting, waiting, frozen, _for one small movement forward…_

His tongue moved involuntarily to rest just behind his bottom lip.

"Yes?" he asked quietly.

Blaine's fingers gripped his arm.

"Please try to calm down," he said, his voice tenderly gentle and oh, so soft. Kurt would glance up to see what color that kind of tenderness gave to those eyes if his own weren't so helplessly glued to the lips in front of him. He could feel Blaine's breath, already erratic, speed up slightly. He wondered vaguely if his own was doing the same.

Nails dug into his skin.

"Kurt," Blaine said, and his voice sounded slightly strangled. "Please. You're kind of overwhelming me."

Kurt blinked and something flooded into him, a—

_Terror, _suddenly, and Kurt felt his heart marathoning, thudding in painfully fast rhythm faster faster _faster _and he tore away, gasping, backing against the couch and his stomach dropped as he lost his balance and he had to _move leave go go please OUT—_

Blaine reached out, panicked, and forcefully grabbed his hands, squeezing tightly as the terror drained… out… and…

A slow, shaky breath escaped Kurt's lips, and with it went his energy. Warmth pressing against his eyes, stuffing his brain, his body buckled, sliding tiredly to the floor.

"I'm sorry," Blaine was saying, sinking to the floor with him, holding tightly to his hands. "I'm sorry, that wasn't—I didn't mean—"

Kurt could only stare at him with half-lidded eyes.

"You overwhelmed me," Blaine repeated helplessly. Kurt's gaze dragged down to their tightly clasped hands. A slow, trickling peacefulness slid like sweet molasses up his arms… thick, gliding over his insides… coating his throat… dragging down his eyelids…

"Who…" Speaking took… "Who… are you?" Speaking took so much work…

Kurt heard the nervous smile in Blaine's voice even as his eyes glued shut and his head flopped forward. "That's not the question you want to ask," his voice coated him. Sweet molasses… submerging him in slack helplessness. Down his throat…

Around his heart…

Pooling low caresses to his stomach…

_Slow… _

Far away, someone's gentle hands guided him through an abyss of weightlessness.

_"_What_ am I?"_ came a muffled voice soaked up by a sponge. Kurt drifted away into nothingness.

_"That's a more appropriate question, I think."_


	8. Nobody Expects The Spanish Inquisition

**A/N: She's alive! And comes bearing a super long chapter in apology! I'm sorry for the wait, my lovely readers–I'm afraid this chapter and I had a showdown, and the chapter ended up beating me mercilessly, multiple times, until I cried "Uncle!" with what was left of my mouth and let it do what it wanted. What it wanted was apparently bipolar mood-swings and a hell of a lot of angst. Next chapter, hopefully Kurt and Blaine will stop being repressed angst!whores and let me add the humor back in. So much for keeping this story light. I hope the unavoidable appearance of the angst isn't a turn-off! In apology, I'm posting both parts of this chapter at once, so make sure you press "next" after you read today's update!**

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><p>The first thought that ran through his head after he shook off the cobwebs in his mind was: <em>I can't believe I slept in this.<em> It was coupled with a wave of disappointment in himself, and a few hopeless smoothing motions with his hands. Steaming the cashmere would take _hours._ He hadn't slept in his clothes since—

That was when the second thought came upon him.

The second thought was: _AGHSDGH!_

…Well, that wasn't the entirety of the thought. There was a "Blaine" and an "alien" and a few expletives in there somewhere, but it all rushed at him in one gigantic tidal wave and Kurt could only hold his breath and try not to swallow any of it as it crashed down upon him. He jerked up to a sitting position, his eyes darting helplessly around the room.

The third thought probably would have been something about how he was lying on the couch and it was no wonder Blaine woke up so early because his back would never be the same again—or whether or not it was dusk or dawn outside because it was definitely not late afternoon anymore—but it didn't have time to form, instead being interrupted by an "Oh, you're up!"

Kurt blinked and turned around to find Carole in the entranceway to the kitchen, a spatula held carelessly in her left hand as if she had forgotten it was there.

"I was just about to wake you! Blaine told me you just collapsed on the couch when you got home, and he didn't have the heart to move you. Your dad will be home soon, and Finn and Puck just came home, so I thought I'd make dinner." Kurt was too busy trying to figure out whether Blaine's story to Carole was a story or the truth to reply properly, and so instead he found himself nodding dumbly. He turned to search the room.

Carole gave him a warm and knowing smile. Kurt had no idea what it was she thought she knew.

"Blaine's upstairs, honey," she told him, turning back to head into the kitchen. Then, calmly, as if she didn't realize the enormity of the information she was about to impart to him: "I think he's with Puck and Finn."

Kurt choked on a breath as Carole tended what looked like a pork roast. Oh no, Blaine alone with _those _boys? Who knew what trouble they were getting into?

A jolt of dread shot through his spine.

Blaine.

_Blaine_ was _alone _with Puck and Finn.

Blaine, who had potentially used some kind of alien power to force Kurt to sleep after Kurt had discovered what he was (kind of). Blaine, who had just been almost killed by a mysterious boy via weird twisting hand motions (unless Kurt had dreamed that part). Blaine, alien/magician/star-trek-character extraordinaire-who-might-actually-be-a-normal-boy-and-Kurt-was-just-hallucinating-maybe—who had _left him _to _sleep on the couch _in _cashmere _(the demon!)—he was _alone _with _Puck and Finn_.

Kurt thanked Carole, heart thudding. He didn't know who he was more frightened for. (He also didn't really understand what was going on and he was still _tired_, goddamnit, which was _ridiculous_ because he had just woken up from a _very long_ _and utterly unneeded _nap.) He settled for racing upstairs to Finn's room in as dignified a manner as he could. He was sure he was going to have to rescue _someone._

…He just didn't know who.

Shouts and a lot of heavy banging emanated from Finn's room, so loud Kurt could hear it from the stairwell landing. Panic swallowed him as a cry suddenly rang out.

"No!" someone bellowed—Finn, it sounded like—"Get away! Blaine!"

Kurt's stomach fell out and he tore up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Oh, god. Oh god! Blaine was doing something, he was—!

"_Get away!_" came the cry again—and then a louder "_NO!"_ Kurt burst through the half-closed door, his heart strangling as—

Blaine's head snapped around to stare at Kurt with widened, worried eyes. His grip loosened around whatever he'd been holding and it dropped to the ground with a dull thud. Kurt stared.

A controller.

A videogame controller.

_You've got be kidding, Kurt Hummel. You have got to be kidding right now. _

There wasn't even any incriminating blood on it to suggest he had been short on murder weapons and had settled for something hard and plastic instead.

"What are you doing, what are you doing?" Finn's shouting burst through the haze in Kurt's mind. Kurt looked up to see half of the small television screen on Finn's floor black out. "Oh, no, come on! No!" Finn's agonized wail was punctuated by Puck's disturbing victory dance of success ("Oh yeah! That's right! Puckzilla's a _beast_ and all the rest of you are _losers_!").

"Dude, why'd you bail?" Finn bemoaned to Blaine, whose face skipped lightly over _lost_ before settling into _bemused_. "We almost had him!"

"Sorry," Blaine half-laughed. "I was a little distracted."

It was then that Puck and Finn seemed to finally notice Kurt standing in the doorway.

"Oh hey, man, you're up!" Finn grinned. Kurt tried to look calm, and not like he had just barged into Finn's room in a panic for absolutely no reason. "Wanna play two on two? Puck needs a teammate."

"Hey! I work _alone_, Hudson!"

"Actually," Blaine interrupted before things turned ugly, getting up off the bed. "I think I'm out. I need to talk to Kurt. If you guys don't mind?"

Finn looked disappointed, but Puck just shrugged and turned back to the little TV. "Not a problem, bro," he said absently, resetting the game. "Let's go, Hudson. This time, no hiding behind coma boy's rookie moves; I'm gonna beat you mano a mano."

"Dude, don't start speaking Italian just to distract me from your bad playing," Finn started, and Kurt flinched as Blaine grabbed his elbow and led him out the room.

"We'll leave them to it, shall we?" Blaine murmured by his ear. Kurt's breath hitched in something that was only halfway terror. Blaine led him down the hallway, his grip warm and strong—and somehow reassuring. Kurt felt himself relaxing as they walked further away from the door, Finn and Puck's muted shouts of revenge piercing the silence that blanketed them.

They ended up in Kurt's room. Blaine led Kurt to the edge of the bed, and Kurt immediately sank down onto it. Blaine let go.

He grabbed the chair by the vanity and pulled it up to the bed, sitting down directly across from Kurt and closer than Kurt was normally comfortable with. If he or Blaine shifted forward just slightly, their knees would be touching. Kurt didn't really mind it at the moment. He felt a little ridiculous for having been so terrified earlier—there was something so comforting about Blaine. Really, nothing to be scared of.

Blaine shifted forward to reach out for his hands, knees brushing Kurt's, fingers—

Kurt jerked away, scrambling backward on the bed. He stared horrified at the boy in front of him.

"Don't touch me!" he hissed, the panic and terror slamming back into him like a heavy brick wall. "I don't want you touching me!"

Something that might have been hurt flickered over Blaine's face before it smoothed out into a sympathetic concern. He slowly raised his hands in surrender.

"Okay," Blaine said, leaning back in his chair. "I won't touch you." Blaine's eyes darted to the end of the bed, as if to imply Kurt should move back there.

Kurt watched him warily, and decided to stay where he was. Blaine tensed a little. Kurt prepared himself for excuses.

"You probably have a lot of questions," Blaine announced.

Kurt blinked in surprise.

"Oh," he said. "I wasn't expecting you to be so forthright about it."

Blaine frowned. "What else would I have done?"

"You could have pretended it didn't happen. Convinced me it was a dream."

If anything, Blaine looked even more mystified than before. "Why would I…?"

"You told Carole I fell asleep," Kurt stated flatly.

"That's highly different than convincing her it didn't happen. You _did _fall asleep," Blaine pointed out.

"But you _put_ me to sleep!"

Blaine's eyebrows rose, as if to say '_your point?'_

Kurt huffed out a sigh."Never mind," he muttered. Rearranging himself into a position that he felt was more dignified, Kurt cleared his throat. "I do have questions." He looked up to find Blaine wearing a small, fond sort of smile. His heart tripped before settling back into its rhythm. Kurt cleared his throat again. "Um," he started, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Earlier. It _was_ you that put me to sleep, right?"

Blaine's head gave an apologetic half-nod. "I'm sorry about that," he said. He did sound apologetic. "I lost control. I meant to just calm you down a little."

"So you can make me feel things," Kurt stated. He wondered if everything he had felt when with Blaine had been some sort of artificial construct of the boy's. All those moments of inexplicable happiness, or that feeling of safety, comfort… if it had all been fake.

Something about his tone must have clued Blaine in to what he was thinking, because Blaine's smile wilted a little (or Blaine was a mind-reader. _And that most definitely just became his next question_). "I can influence your mood, but I don't do it often," he insisted earnestly. "I'd never used it with you until today."

"You used it with Finn," Kurt realized, thinking back to that weird moment in the kitchen. "When he got down about Rachel." Blaine looked uncomfortable.

"Only a little. Sometimes… it can get a little overwhelming," he said hesitantly. Kurt cocked his head.

"You said that earlier today, too. That I was overwhelming you. What was so overwhelming?" he asked.

Blaine's left leg bounced a little before he stilled it, and Kurt glanced at it in surprise. He looked at Blaine more closely, picking out details he hadn't noticed before. Tightly clasped hands. The tongue that darted out to lick his lips.

Oh.

Blaine was _nervous_. Kurt found himself leaning back against the headboard in surprise at the revelation. Blaine seemed to take a breath at the exact time Kurt started reeling, and Kurt's eyes widened.

"You don't read minds, do you?" he rushed to ask, holding back his horror. Because that would have been something he would have liked to have known _before_ he had started planning elaborate dates in his mind whenever in Blaine's presence.

Blaine sent him a half-smile and shook his head.

"No," he said, self-deprecation woven darkly through his voice. "No mind-reading."

Kurt sighed in relief.

"Well…" he abruptly corrected. "Kind of."

Kurt tensed.

"What do you mean, _'kind of'_?" he asked tightly. Blaine made an abortive move as if to reach out to him, but instead sat back in his chair. Kurt refrained from squirming as Blaine studied him.

"I can… _feel_ things," he said tentatively, "that other people feel."

Kurt was pretty sure his eyebrows had disappeared into his hairline.

"I'm sorry, what?" he squeaked. "You—? Like, all the time?"

"Not all the time, no!" Blaine assured him quickly. Then seemed to reconsider. "Well—"

"Okay, you need to stop doing that," Kurt said firmly. "Choose an answer. You either do or you don't."

"I _don't_," Blaine asserted. "Or, I _didn't_. Until—or, maybe I still don't, I—" Blaine let loose a noise from the back of his throat that Kurt _in no way _found ridiculously sexy (because there was a time and place for everything and now was certainly not the time and place for having sexual fantasies about a mysterious stranger who can influence how you feel). "It's more complicated than just yes or no, Kurt," Blaine attempted to explain. Kurt was unimpressed.

"What's complicated about it?" he asked flatly. "Do you feel things all the time or do you not?"

"I don—_didn't_, before, but—I guess—I—now I do. I think."

Blaine looked as hopelessly confused about what he was trying to say as Kurt was.

"You _do _feel things from other people all the time."

"I—unless today is just a fluke, and I'll…" Blaine heaved a frustrated sigh and ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know," he mumbled.

Kurt studied him carefully. "Does this have something to do with that boy from earlier?"

Blaine glanced up at him. "Flint," he said darkly. "Yeah, probably."

Kurt felt like he was trying to navigate a frozen lake, not knowing where, or even if, it was going to crack. Blaine's silently screaming face filled the crevices of his mind, contorted in—was it pain? What would have happened had Kurt not been there to interrupt?

"What was he doing to you?" he asked softly. "It looked like he was hurting you."

Blaine stared vaguely down at Kurt's red comforter, letting the question dissolve into the fragile quiet now surrounding them. Kurt wondered what he saw there.

"He was trying to take me back to Dalton." Blaine's voice was crystallized glass. Kurt couldn't stop himself from moving closer.

"Dalton?" he breathed, afraid of breaking the air with the too-sharp clarity of his voice.

"What I ran away from," came the quiet confession. "He didn't like that I had left. So he… tried to convince me to return."

"How?" Kurt was almost at the edge of the bed. A devastatingly urgent need to touch the boy in front of him, to understand what was going through his head, bubbled up from his stomach and twined around his arms.

Blaine shrugged lightly. "It's hard to explain in words…"

"So show me."

_– The hell?_

Where had _that _come from?

Blaine's head snapped up, eyes wide and lips parted with a mirroring shock. "_What?_" his voice cracked. Kurt could take it back, right now, deny he had said anything. …But…

He moved swiftly to the end of the bed before Blaine could move away, and shifted forward, their knees touching. Blaine jumped at the contact and tried to lean backward, but the chair had been placed too close and he was effectively trapped. "Kurt—"

"Show me," Kurt said again, firmer this time, reaching for Blaine's hands. And there was something wrong with him, obviously, there had to be something wrong with him to want Blaine to demonstrate on him whatever it was the Flint kid had been trying to do. Blaine had been _screaming_—or trying to scream—he couldn't scream, nothing had come out of his mouth, but Kurt had seen his face and he had been _screaming_… And Kurt had just stood there. He needed to feel that. He needed to know what it was that could make you scream and yet be so silent; to scream so that no one knows you're screaming. He needed that.

He had no idea where this was coming from. In the section of his mind devoted to logical thought, he knew that it was a bad, insane, crazy idea. This wasn't something to want. This was a _bad_ idea. But he… _(a wink. leering.)_

_Blaine's face, contorted into silence._

To scream without screaming.

Kurt's hands closed firmly around tanned wrists, and he slowly brought Blaine's hands up to his chest. They were trembling.

"What made you scream?" he asked on air. "Show me."

"I don't—" Blaine tried to move away, but it was so weak Kurt didn't even have to hold him in place. "I don't—"

Blaine could feel what Kurt was feeling, he had said. So Kurt didn't need to explain—Blaine knew the consuming want that was scraping inside of him—was _feeling _that want himself. Kurt brought his eyes up to lock with Blaine's.

"Kurt, this—" Blaine's eyes were a thunderstorm of emotion even as he pressed his hands firmly against Kurt's skin. "You don't know— I _can't_—"

Kurt tightened his hold on Blaine's wrists and focused on _needing_. Blaine sucked in a fast breath, his hands turning to fists against Kurt's chest as fingers of yearning stretched around Kurt's heart. Their eyes stayed like magnets on each other.

"Do you feel that?" Kurt asked. Blaine's mouth opened and the air he had taken in lightly danced across Kurt's cheeks.

"Don't do that," he whispered.

"Am I overwhelming you?" Kurt shifted closer. Thought _please. _Thought _must_. Thought _want._ He watched as it echoed in Blaine's eyes. He felt it tear at his throat and watched as it quickened Blaine's breath. "You said you get overwhelmed. Is this what you meant?"

"Kurt," Blaine breathed, but he didn't continue. His chest rose and fell in uneven waves. Kurt knew his was doing the same.

"Show me," Kurt pleaded. "_Please!_" He moved even closer, thought even harder, and _felt, he felt—_

Blaine was suddenly _twisting _his hands around the material of Kurt's shirt, violently, rough, _fast_, too fast for Kurt to see, and a _sudden spike of terror tore through his throat as_—!

All of the need bled out of him. Red, and stinging, dragging in strings from the pads of his fingers, up his arms, across his chest and _out—_into Blaine, who…

_There_. _There! Those eyes, amber, bolting him in place but showing him an endlessly captivating forever, they were _real, _they were—_

Then Blaine was gone, out of the chair and at the other end of the room.

And Kurt sat struggling to restrain the tears that begged passage out his eyes.

The quiet was oppressive. Only the sound of their uneven breath, no longer an in sync acapella of noise and all the more out of time for it, littered the air. With the need gone, all Kurt felt was repulsion. What kind of person would—_want—_to be hurt like that? So badly? To force it on Blaine in the way he had… and Kurt had always thought himself relatively selfless.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. He was granted nothing back, save the shaking in Blaine's breath. Kurt drew himself in, setting his jaw. Okay. Fine. He deserved that. Gathering the pieces of himself he had flung messily around the room, he got up to walk to the door.

"You're already screaming," Blaine said from his corner. His voice was like a stop sign, clear and insistent in Kurt's ears. Matter-of-fact. Quiet. Kurt was frozen by it. "All the time. You're screaming. I think you've been screaming for so long you don't even hear yourself anymore. But you don't need me to show you how to do it."

Words flew away when Kurt tried to use them. _That wasn't_…

"You feel so deeply, Kurt. I think you underestimate how powerful that is. I don't think you believe anyone can hear you, but you're the clearest thing I've been able to hear since I got here."

It felt like Blaine had punched him in the stomach. Kurt wasn't sure he was able to breathe anymore.

"What you… what you were trying to do…"–the faltering confidence in Blaine's voice was like a slap, all the more shocking for the utter lack of genuine feeling that permeated the rest of his speech–"What Flint was trying to do... It was their favorite game at Dalton," Blaine said. "I was the only one that could feel it. So they would see what they could get me to do. If they really hated something, would I hate it too? If violence bubbled out of them like a cancer, would I kill something for them? If they wanted something enough…" Blaine turned to look at Kurt then, smiling wistfully. "My dad once tried to convince me I wasn't gay by hiding a pair of straight boys in the next room and surrounding me with a bunch of Playboy magazines. It was…" he huffed a quiet laugh and shook his head in what could only be fondness. "Inventive."

It was like he was telling Kurt about the weather. Kurt didn't understand. A muffled hum of happiness would have hit his heart as the word 'gay' fell from Blaine's lips, had it not already been swallowed up in an engulfing horror. It had been such an easy and obvious choice a few minutes ago. He wanted it, and Blaine wanted it, so it made sense to make him do it–for the both of them.

But that had been a half-truth, and Kurt knew it. It wasn't 'he wanted, and Blaine wanted'. It was 'he wanted, _so Blaine wanted_'. And despite his inner rationalizations, he had known that when he was forcing his feelings on Blane. He had _used_ that. He had used that _against Blaine_. Was he even allowed to be disgusted, horrified, at what Dalton had done? Kurt had done the exact same thing.

He stood unmoving, lost, not knowing what to do or what to say or what to think. Worried the slightest interruption would cause Blaine to dam up this sudden stream of confession. Worried the stream would turn into a flood that he wouldn't be able to handle. He wanted Blaine to keep talking. He wanted Blaine to shut up.

"I hated it. So I built myself walls," Blaine continued in the same straightforward, amiable tone, and Kurt _didn't understand_. "And they couldn't do it anymore." He shrugged. "And they worked fine until I ran away, and I _felt_ you through them, and I crashed into your backyard."

Kurt swallowed against the lump in his throat. "Why did you feel me?" he rasped. Blaine shook his head.

"I don't know. But ever since I did, my walls have been flickering in and out. And then Flint decided to be an idiot and went all East Berlin on me and they've been crumbled to pieces since." Without even realizing what he was doing, Kurt opened his mouth to point out the incompatibility of that metaphor–and snapped his jaw shut (_time and place, Kurt_). He blinked hard against an approaching storm of tears.

"I'm so sorry," he said, his voice small.

"I know," Blaine said easily. And he was so sincere that Kurt couldn't believe he didn't mean it, no matter how much he tried. "I'm not blaming you for feeling too deeply, Kurt," Blaine said softly. "You're only human."

His eyes were shaded normal, that weird eternity no longer brimming golden in their depths. But Kurt knew it was still there, just underneath the surface. He felt his heart squeezed by tiny fingers of dread.

"And you?" he asked. "What are you?"

Blaine grinned and Kurt held his breath.

Oh god, this was real_. _

_Blaine was ET._

Blaine looked at Kurt and those familiar amber hallways filled his eyes.

"Magic," he said.

Kurt's remorse flew out of his mouth and up into the air with his eyebrows.

_… What?_


	9. Our Cheif Weapon Is Surprise

**A/N:** **Part b. Kurt and Blaine were in good moods today, so the angst is back on the backburner for this one. This is ultimately a romance/adventure with comedic elements, though, so it's definitely still simmering back there. Just so you're warned.**

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><p>Kurt was still confused twenty minutes later.<p>

"So what you're saying is you're a wizard. Like Harry Potter."

"No, I'm—I'm _magic_. Like, a physical embodiment of magic."

"So… like a wizard."

"No. A wizard _does_ it; I _am _it."

"Disneyland?"

"This is so much more frustrating than I thought it was going to be."

Kurt collapsed onto his back, staring up at the ceiling above him. He thought hard.

"Gandalf."

"I'm _not a wizard_," Blaine insisted from the chair he had once again taken up residence in. Kurt fought a grin.

Blaine blinked. A knowing smile slowly spread across his face. "That was a joke, wasn't it?" he asked Kurt suspiciously. Kurt's grin won the fight and shone brightly and triumphantly on his face—surprising a laugh out of Blaine.

"Can you do substitutiary locomotion?" Kurt asked, rolling onto his stomach to look at Blaine properly. Blaine had turned the chair backward and propped his elbows overtop the back of it, resting his temple against his left hand. Kurt watched as he shook his head wryly.

"You are something else," he smiled. A bubble of delight expanded Kurt's ribs.

"And you're magic," Kurt responded. "Whatever that means."

Blaine's smile stayed the same, but his eyes moved intently across Kurt's face.

"C'mere," he said determinedly. Kurt raised himself up on his forearms. _What? _"C'mere," Blaine repeated, shifting up straight in his chair and gesturing Kurt closer. Kurt tentatively sat up and moved toward the edge of the bed. Blaine gestured more emphatically. "Closer. Come on, I'm not going to bite," he nudged.

Kurt hesitated. The only way to get closer would be to sit at the edge of the bed, and since Blaine had moved the chair even closer than it had been before, Kurt considered that a blatant invasion of Blaine's personal space—especially after what had happened only forty minutes prior. He shoved down the nausea that rose within him quickly, hoping to bury it before Blaine noticed.

He stayed where he was.

Blaine's expression softened.

"Kurt, it's okay," he said gently. "I trust you."

Kurt looked into those beautifully reassuring eyes—so open and filled with such conviction—and couldn't help but think how absolutely stupid it was of Blaine to do so.

"Why?" he asked. It came out harsher than he intended. He felt a flicker of surprise at its tone at the same time shock knocked Blaine's expression wide open.

"I…" The assurance Blaine had so confidently projected stumbled, and Kurt felt a tug inside as he watched him search the room for words. "I don't know," Blaine finally said, meeting his eyes. "I just do."

Something inside of him gave way.

He moved to the edge of the bed.

Blaine had a look on his face Kurt couldn't interpret. He was about to move back to the center of the bed when Blaine sent him a sweet smile and reached out. Kurt sucked in a breath and held it in his shoulders, but let the strong fingers wrap around the back of his right hand. Blaine's thumb started stroking a line down the supple center of his palm. Kurt breathed out shakily.

"What are you doing?" he asked nervously. Blaine's gaze had turned inward—and golden. "Blaine?" Kurt asked, alarmed.

Blaine let out a soothing _shh_, his attention still drawn somewhere inside of himself. His thumb continued its slow caress up and down Kurt's was suddenly immensely thankful he was sitting down, because his knees would have buckled embarrassingly quickly had he not been.

_Was there a reason they had to be so _close_ for this?_

Blaine's eyes fell half-closed, his lips parting a little. A light tingling accompanied his next stroke. Kurt's breath hitched.

"Kurt," Blaine murmured with a small smile, "Calm down."

"Yep!" Kurt squeaked. "Calm!"

The next stroke the tingling was stronger. A quiet trembling snuck up his spine.

"What are you doing?" he asked again, his voice pitifully high.

A tickle.

A—

_OW!_

Kurt snatched his hand back at the sharp sting, cradling it protectively to his chest. "What was that for?" he cried. Blaine opened his eyes, still orange-gold and alien, and nodded to the hand.

"Look and see," he said.

Skeptically, Kurt did.

On his hand, somehow woven between the natural lines of his palm, was written a message in flowing cursive:

_Sorry : (_

Kurt didn't know whether he wanted to laugh, or slap the boy in front of him.

He settled on glaring. Emoticons were never cool, especially not tattooed onto someone's skin. Blaine sent him a sheepish half-smile before reaching out again. "Here," he said, grasping Kurt's hand in a firm handshake before Kurt could pull away. His fingers slid down Kurt's palm like they were exchanging drugs, dragging down his skin and _tugging_ away an invisible string embedded in the center of Kurt's palm.

Blaine's fingers slipped off his, and he dusted off his hands nonchalantly. Kurt glanced down at his palm.

"Oh," he stared, feeling the now-smooth surface with the tips of the fingers of his other hand. "Okay."

Blaine had folded his arms on the back of the chair again, and rested his chin casually atop them. Kurt looked up to find Blaine watching him with an amused smile. His eyes, still glowing ocher, glanced purposely over at the table by the bed before looking back at Kurt. Kurt, a little too dazed to question it, turned to look.

There was no table by the bed.

…_WAIT._

Kurt whipped around to stare at Blaine. "What did you–?"

Blaine raised his eyebrows innocently. Alien eyes again gestured to the table-that-now-apparently-didn't-exist. Kurt whirled a fast turn to find—

There it was. Sitting innocently next to the bed as if it had never left.

Kurt's head spun.

"You can make things disappear," he said faintly. Blaine shook his head.

"I can shift things into a pocket of space," he corrected, as if that made any more sense. "They're still there, technically. You just can't see or feel them."

Kurt didn't even know where to start with that one. "And you can… write things on people's palms?" (_It sounded as underwhelming as it was._)

Blaine blushed. Kurt was charmed. "I thought it was a neat trick. Wes and David—" He cut himself off suddenly. "My friends liked to use it to communicate sometimes. Like… passing notes."

"Takes a little long to use it to pass notes," Kurt commented.

"Only the first time. Once you've learned the surface, it only takes a few seconds." He swiped a thumb up Kurt's palm to demonstrate, and Kurt's jumped as a sharp stab of pain flared to life underneath it.

_Don't be frightened._

Blaine dragged his thumb down quickly, crooking it slightly, and Kurt watched as the letters leached away into the pad of it like splinters being pulled, looking for all the world like they were being unstitched.

"See?"

It had been easier to swallow when Blaine's mysterious talents remained relatively invisible. Now it just felt like Kurt had unintentionally tripped through the looking glass on his way to the Finn's room.

"What else can you do?" Oh, wonderful. His astonishing tendency to rise several octaves in pitch when he was nervous remained intact. Great.

Blaine was squinting at him. "Um…" His hand moved to hover over Kurt's arm. Kurt held his breath.

Nothing happened.

"What are—?"

Blaine's hand suddenly moved to pat Kurt's arm, and drew away. He blinked and the gold in his eyes was gone. "The end! That's it," he said cheerfully.

…Well, that was fake.

Kurt tilted his head. "What were you about to do?" he pressed.

Blaine looked at him with a frozen smile (and really, this boy was an open book; Kurt couldn't believe it had taken him this long to read him). "Nothing," he said. "That's all."

Kurt raised a careful eyebrow.

Blaine rolled his eyes. "It was nothing," he insisted. "Not worth demonstrating."

One of the great things about being so close was the uninterrupted view of Blaine's now-honey-brown eyes: wherein Kurt found evidence of unease crinkled in the corners. Kurt was about to call him on it when Blaine's head snapped over to the door and—

He stood up, moving—Kurt didn't even know, couldn't even see him, one second he was holding the vanity chair and the next he—wasn't? The chair was in front of the vanity, Blaine was at a more appropriate distance, and Kurt still felt a lingering warmth where Blaine's hand had flushed happiness through his system by way of his shoulder.

"Done being boring?" Puck asked as he barreled into the room, throwing an arm around Blaine's shoulder. "Mom Hudson says dinner's ready, and after we eat, you're called to duty."

"Called to duty?" Blaine asked, amusement lacing his voice.

"It's the name of the game you were playing," Kurt explained as he got up and led the way out of his room. "And Puckerman is suffering from highly severe delusions if he thinks he's converting you into a mindless killing machine just so he can beat Finn."

"Hey!" Puck cried. Kurt ignored him, smiling absentmindedly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that the last thirty seconds probably would have rendered him completely catatonic with shock had he not been feeling so happily content when it all happened. _Damn, Blaine, good call. _(And speaking of, Blaine totally lied about what else he could do, because _no one _could move that fast. No one. Kurt couldn't stop himself from wondering what else Blaine was still hiding.)

"Dude, what did you do to Hummel?" Kurt heard Puck whisper as they headed down the hall. "I didn't even know he _knew _how to smile like that."

Walking down the stairs, Kurt felt the contentment start to mist away, and he sighed through closed lips as what Blaine had been trying to show him finally registered.

Blaine was magic. He could do things no other human could do, some without so much as lifting a finger. He had some kind of power—no, he _was _a kind of power Kurt had never seen before. He was magic.

_… He wasn't human._

The enormity of the situation hit him.

It was going to be unbelievably difficult finding a romantic-comedy metaphor to fit this.


	10. We Interrupt Our Regular Broadcast

**A/N: And we're interrupted once more…**

* * *

><p><em>"Look, it's—it's not that—ah—"<em>

_"Mmhmm?"_

_"Not that I'm—oh g—not—**attracted** to you, I—" A gasp. "**Oh-god-would-you-please-stop-doing-that****!**"_

_"Come on, Blaine. It'll be incredible."_

_"I highly doubt that!"_

_"Have you ever tried it before?"_

_"**No.** And I—I don't **want** to. I don't even **know**_ _you that well!"_

_"You're so tense. **Relax.**"_

_"…Y-… _

_…wh… what did you… just…?"_

_"Shh. It's alright. I just want to try—"_

_ "—Are you Blaine Anderson?"_

_.  
><em>

_A groan._

_.  
><em>

_"…dammit… Okay, look, think about it and tell me what you decide."_

_"I've decided no. I— **Andrew! I've decided no!**"_

_.  
><em>

_.  
><em>

_"…I don't believe he heard you."_

_ "It doesn't seem anyone hears me here._

_…_

_I'm sorry, I've been rude. I am Blaine Anderson, yes. I'm sorry for looking so…"_

_"Wes Montgomery."_

_"Wes. I don't think I've noticed you around before."_

_"You've only been here a week."_

_"I…? Oh. Right. A week, yes._

_…_

_Sorry."_

_"It's not a problem. This place messes with your head."_

_"Tell me about it."_

_"For you more than others, I would suppose._

_…_

_I only meant that I'd think it might get overpowering for you at times."_

__.  
><em>_

__.  
><em>_

_"_…_Please don't tell me you want to experiment, too. Because I'm not interested."_

_"No, that's not… You looked like you needed some help."_

_.  
><em>

_"_…_Thank you."_

_"You're welcome._

__…__

__…__

_…I'm sorry that he did that to you."_

_"It's not like you told him to do it."_

_"I know. I just… _

__…__

_I can't command you like that, just so you're aware. I'm… not as talented as some of the others."_

_"'Talent'—that's what you guys call it?"_

_._

_"Look, I understand how hard this is for you. Being away from your home, your family—it's painful. But everyone's safer with you here. You **belong**_ _here. With all that you can feel, you have to be able to feel that."_

_._

_"I don't know **what** I feel in this place._

_…_

_Listen, I should probably get back to my room. Thank you again."_

_"If you need anything, don't hesitate to come find me."_

_"Thank you."_

_"Don't thank me. You shouldn't have to deal with—things like that."_

_"Your name was…?"_

_"Wes. Wes Montgomery."_

_"Wes. It was good to meet you."_

_"Likewise. Welcome to Dalton Academy, Blaine."_

_"… Thrilled to be here."_


	11. Argumentum ad Hominum

**A/N:** **Thank you all for your wonderful patience! I wasn't going to split this chapter into parts, but I felt so bad for the wait I figured splitting this up wouldn't hurt. This is Part A. Part B should be coming along shortly, as I have six hours to kill this weekend and access to a computer.**

* * *

><p>Blaine wanted to go to school with him.<p>

He was adamant, insisting he'd keep close to Kurt at all times and follow him around to all of his classes—he'd do it silently—okay, he'd follow Finn around to all of _Finn's _classes—Puck?

"Puck never goes to class," Kurt said idly, washing out the salad bowl after dinner as Blaine hounded him. "No," he added as Blaine opened his mouth once more.

"Kurt, come on! I just want to check it out. Come on, please? I've never been!" Blaine leveled big eyes at him and Kurt almost melted. No one should be allowed to look that cute. He tightened his grip on the bowl and forced himself to look away (though not without appreciation for the effectiveness of Blaine's pleading techniques).

"You can pull that earnest puppy face out all you want, Sabrina," he said airily, "it won't get you any closer to McKinley."

Wryness dissolved Blaine's expression. "Melissa Joan Hart? Really?"

"I'm surprised you know who that is, considering your deprived childhood."

"_Kiki's Delivery Service _is an obscure animated movie no one except you has seen."

"It's a masterpiece of a children's film, and it's one of the few movies showcasing Kirsten Dunst before she became the bane of cinema," Kurt insisted coolly, "_Everyone _has seen that film."

"Whilst Kirsten Dunst's likeability is questionable, it's also beside the point. Something's going on with you there," Blaine's voice dropped low and soft, and it took Kurt a second to realize he had changed the subject back to school and was not actually making fun of his taste in movies. "Maybe I can help—"

He reached for Kurt's hand, and Kurt slipped it out of the way, quick as a rattlesnake.

"Don't think so," he glared. He brandished the rag in front of him like a shield. "No magic mood-changers can influence my decision. In fact: if you go? I will feel miserable the _entire_ day," he threatened. Blaine froze, eyes wide. "_Miserable_," Kurt repeated. "Wallowing."

Then, for emphasis: "Indulgently." He would have continued, but the horrified expression coloring Blaine's face convinced him he'd gotten his point across. He turned back to the bowl.

"Don't be childish," Blaine began weakly behind him, but Kurt interrupted: "This conversation is over."

Blaine pressed his lips together and watched silently as Kurt dried off the bowl with a small towel. The silence was unbreakably awkward.

Until it was broken.

"Short dude!" Puck called loudly from the living room, and Finn corrected him, calling Blaine's actual name. "Duty calls!"

Kurt studiously examined his dish for any dirt he might have missed as Blaine walked out into the living room to kill enemy soldiers in a show of violent patriotism, forever dropping the subject.

Or so he'd thought.

"Finn, come on! Going to be late!" he called for the third time as he stood waiting at the bottom of the stairs. There was a loud crash and Finn (_finally_) stumbled down, pulling on his letterman jacket with rough fingers (Kurt would have protested such torturous treatment of fabric had he not hated that jacket and everything it symbolized with a passion that rivaled the heat of a hundred suns). Blaine came out of the kitchen where he had been sharing breakfast with Kurt, holding out a piece of toast to Finn.

"Thanks, man," Finn mumbled around the bread he had stuffed immediately into his mouth. A twinge of disgust skipped over him and Blaine glanced at Kurt in amusement. Kurt rolled his eyes and fought a smile.

"Time to go," he insisted, turning to head out to the car. He heard Finn grabbing a coat and turned in confusion when more than two feet followed him.

…_Ha. _

_No._

His eyebrows raised in disbelief as he watched Finn hand Blaine a coat. A small, deprecating laugh escaped him.

"I'm sorry, what is this?" he asked. Blaine watched him carefully as Finn grabbed another winter coat from the closet.

"He's coming with us today!" Finn announced. Kurt's jaw dropped and he looked back over at Blaine, who matched his gaze with intense determination. _That sneaky bastard._

"No," Kurt said firmly, eyes locked on hazel honey. "No, he is not coming with us today."

"I already said he could, dude," Finn tossed carelessly, shrugging.

"He is _not _coming with us today," Kurt repeated. Still, those honeyed eyes stayed intent.

"Um, Kurt—"

"Finn, get in the car," Kurt snapped. Finn didn't move, looking unsure between the two in front of him. Kurt snarled. "_Now!_" He jumped and sped out the door.

Blaine stood resolute in front of him. Unwavering, even as hot pokers of betrayal burned in Kurt's stomach.

"You're really something, you know that?" Kurt said softly. "I can't believe you."

Unrepentant. "I can _help_—"

"There's nothing to help with! But you know what you_ can_ do? You can _stay here_, and _listen_ to me for once when I tell you no!" Blaine held that stupid, monstrously over-sized coat tighter and Kurt was seized with a sudden urge to rip it off his shoulders. He turned away, instead.

"You wake up and you're terrified to go to that school, and you come back and you're terrified from having been!" Blaine followed him, blocking his way as he turned to leave and since he couldn't escape, Kurt settled on glaring. "You can deny it all you want, hide it in anger and defensiveness, but you're scared _all the time_, Kurt."

Kurt crossed his arms, hugging his torso in a way _not at all defensive, Blaine, fuck you. _"And you know better than I do what I feel," he stated pointedly.

"I think I have access to a more objective assessment than you do, yes," Blaine replied, his hands up in front of him like he was calming some kind of pet. Kurt seethed.

"Has anyone ever told you how nauseatingly condescending you are?" he spit out venomously. Blaine's face broke open with hurt, and Kurt felt a thrill of vindictive victory. "You can manipulate people all you want, but you're not stepping foot inside that school!" Too pissed off to continue talking, he pushed past Blaine to get to the door. Blaine's hand latched onto his arm as he passed by, grip strong and painful, and Kurt froze, staring back at him with furious eyes _(just try it, just you try to change how I feel about this and see what happens, you asshole!)_.

Blaine recoiled and let go as if he had been burnt, staring at Kurt with an expression Kurt couldn't identify. It made him look even smaller, shrunken into Finn's oversized jacket.

"Kurt, please," he said softly, warm eyes sweet and earnest in their beseeching. "You've done so much for me. _Please_, just let me help you."

Blaine was the picture of sincerity. Small. Beautiful.

Kurt slammed the door with a force that shook the whole house. He tore into his Navigator and drove furiously away from the boy in the living room before he did something stupid like let Blaine come with him.

Or punch him in the face.

…Even if the latter would be incredibly satisfying.


	12. Collapse of the Straw Man

A/N: **Part B! And the end of Act One. The angst is back with a vengeance. Thank you all for your wonderfully kind comments, they keep me going! And a warm hello to all you new readers! Concrit is always welcome.**

* * *

><p>Mercedes opened her locker with a bang, and Kurt jumped, turning to stare at her in surprise.<p>

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I slamming my locker door and glaring at everybody without telling my best friend _anything_ about why I'm in such a bad mood? I didn't notice." She took out a Spanish textbook and slammed the metal door shut. Kurt tensed, annoyance coiling tight across his chest.

"It's nothing," he said shortly as he spun his lock. He opened the door to his locker, whacking it against the metal beside it purposely as Mercedes continued to remain an unwanted presence by his side.

"You've been moody all day," she pointed out, face set in determination. "What's going on, Kurt?"

He glanced at her no-nonsense expression and all of the words that had been pressing back behind his teeth pushed forward, angry and vicious. _You don't care enough to notice when I have a real problem_, he wanted to snap, _so it must be nothing serious if _you're_ worried about it._ Something ugly must have seeped into his eyes, because Mercedes subtly flinched a little in hurt and took a small step backward.

Blaine's expression, cracked open and bleeding from wounds Kurt's word had made, flashed like lightning across his mind. _Please, just let me help you._

Kurt clenched his jaw against the sudden wave of miserable crashing up against his throat. _It's not her fault. _Mercedes was a friend, he reminded himself. This was a battle he didn't have to fight. He sighed heavily, the breath dragging down at his shoulders.

Fine.

"It's Blaine," he admitted, the information pulling at his teeth as it left. "He wanted to go with us to school today."

Mercedes lit up. "Oh, I have to judge his cuteness!" she exclaimed, straightening from her position against the locker and craning her head around Kurt, as if expecting to find Blaine hiding somewhere behind him. "Where is he?"

"Locked safely in the house where he belongs," he stated defensively.

"Kurt!" She radiated reproof.

"I'm not going to let him come into the _warzone_ with me!" Kurt protested, forgetting his books for a moment. "With all the flirting he does? He'd become an immediate target!"

Which was a lie.

Well, not really. It wasn't that he didn't think Blaine would be singled out the minute he so much as looked at Kurt with those eyes of his; it was just that _that_ wasn't really the major concern. If Blaine had been a normal person, just a boy he'd met in a store or on the street, the first thing he would have wanted to do would have been to bring him to school and show him off. A gorgeous, sweet, kind boy, just this side of perfect, who didn't treat him like a leper; whom girls would swoon over, flirt with, scheme about, until Kurt very kindly stepped in with _oh, he's dreamy, darling, but I wouldn't get your hopes up; _who would act around Kurt as he always did. Little touches, and winks, and grins reserved just for him—things that Kurt would flaunt to the rest of the school—that would proclaim _I am wanted_, with a knowing side of _and you wish he wanted you_, in large, bold letters above the resident gay pariah. Why _wouldn't _he want to bring Blaine to school?

But warning signs flashing bright and alarming in his mind's eye screamed _EMPATH _and _NOT HUMAN—_and he saw Blaine, walking through the halls of McKinley without any of his mental walls, filled to bursting with _feelings _that weren't his, that he wouldn't be able to control no matter how many people he tried to influence. And more than that: Blaine, just _knowing _the minute Karofsky passed by, all of the secrets Kurt had been painstakingly hiding. _Tell anyone and I'll kill you. _And Kurt wouldn't even have to tell him, wouldn't even have to point Karofsky out to Blaine, because Blaine would just _feel _it and it would all be over. Something would break, and Karofsky would find out, and it would all be over.

That couldn't happen.

Under no circumstances could that be allowed to happen.

No.

"I think you're being unfair to Blaine," Mercedes told him. "If he wants to go to school with you, clearly he thinks he can handle it."

Yes, but _Kurt _wouldn't be able to handle it. He opened his mouth to argue further when the bell rang.

Mercedes jumped. "Oh damn, I forgot I told Quinn I'd meet up with her before Spanish!" she looked off down the hallway. "Are we still on for Friday night? We are _not _dropping this here."

The last thing Kurt wanted to do right now was go bowling. "Let's talk about it at lunch," he said. "We'll pick it up where we left off." Mercedes grinned in thanks.

"Deal," she said, and headed off down the hallway. Kurt watched her go, feeling more than slightly guilty. Maybe bowling was a good idea. He hadn't spent too much time with Mercedes since his dad's heart attack—and the wedding, and everything with Blaine had happened. Time with his best girlfriend would do him good.

His locker crashed closed _too-close _next to him and he spun around, eyes wide, to meet Karofsky's intent ones. His heart dropped to the floor. The hallway was almost empty, everyone hurrying to their class, and they were practically _alone_—Kurt froze, muscles tensing into granite as Karofsky stared, unmoving, unspeaking—

A finger poked into his chest.

Dragged downward.

Slow, and obscene.

Kurt would have stepped back, or flinched, or—but he couldn't move, couldn't look at anything except the terrifyingly small little lift of the corners of Karofsky's mouth, the _smile_, and—_oh god oh god oh god how low was that finger going to go, exactly, what was he supposed to do, why was he just _staring _like that, Kurt move, Kurt, move move move! _

Karofsky pushed against one of the large wooden buttons of his sweater, forcing shaking breath out of Kurt's diaphragm. "Nice sweater," he said to him. And then he left, just as swiftly as he came.

Leaving Kurt shaking in the middle of the empty hallway.

_The _fuck_ was that?_

He tried to draw in breath, to calm himself down, but he only swallowed against an encroaching rush of hysteria. He had to go to English CLASS. He had to pull himself together and go to English class, and get past this like he always did. But the Henley he was wearing suddenly itched against his skin, creeping _wrongness _down his arms like so many spiders and he kept waiting for someone to notice, to come up to him and ask him if he was aware that his sweater was made of insects and would he like a new one and _yes yes Kurt would like a new sweater, please, just give him a new sweater_, _somebody! _But no one asked, and no one came to wipe off the spiders, and if he stayed in this school one more minute he would rip apart, or rip _it _apart, and he had to _leave, he had to go, take a breath and walk out of the school, you're in control, you're in control, you're—_

He was out the door and slamming his car door before he even knew what he was doing, swerving down the street and speeding down the road, parking the car half-hazardly in the driveway and charging through the front door, tearing off his sweater. Blaine jumped up from the couch, alarmed, calling his name and rushing after him as he raced up the stairs but Kurt couldn't stop to talk to him because he had to change, he had to burn this sweater, he had to _do _something before the dam broke, and he slammed his bedroom door shut and threw the sweater into the corner of his room and that was when the levees burst open.

He hadn't cried since his dad's heart-attack, and it was _stupid _to cry now over a sweater but he couldn't, he couldn't do it anymore, he couldn't _wear _that sweater anymore, and _no, he wasn't okay, it wasn't okay, this wasn't something he could deal with anymore._ When would Karofsky decide to kiss him again? How low would the finger go next time, what piece of clothing would set him off tomorrow? When would the little smile become a full-on grin, or a laugh, or a _hard-on? _He had thought he had understood, had figured out what the problem was _(just a scared little boy) _but it was like Karofsky was getting a _thrill _out of terrifying him and Kurt couldn't wrap his mind around it, couldn't predict what would happen next, couldn't plan for eventualities and outcomes and shoulder the consequences if he couldn't understand what was _going through his opponent's head_. What if Karofsky actually killed someone, _what if he decided to_—? He was on the floor, and he couldn't stop trembling, trying desperately to stop the outpouring of water cascading down his face. He couldn't do this, he couldn't do this, he couldn't…

He heard the pounding first.

Piercing through the thunderstorm in his brain: someone was pounding on his door.

And then came the voice, unrelenting. Coarse—as if it had been crying too.

"—_ease, Kurt, let me help! Please! Let me in! Kurt, let me in!"_

It was like a magnet had snapped his attention into place.

Blaine.

Blaine, outside the door. He had wanted to come to school with him.

_"Let me in," _Blaine cried.

…_Blaine could help him._

Kurt got up as if hypnotized, walking trance-like to the door. Let him in.

He stood, hot tears still slipping down his cheeks like afterthoughts, staring at the locked door in front of him. An option. Blaine was quiet, now, but Kurt could hear his labored breathing muffling against the heavy wood.

He reached out and turned the doorknob. Opened the door. Blaine's sudden intake of air entered with the cool breeze of the hallway.

Those hazel-honey eyes were rimmed red, the usually well-kept hair a mess. Blaine's chest moved unsteady as Kurt looked at him.

Let him in.

"Okay," Kurt rasped, the words scratching against his throat.

Let him in.

"Okay."

Blaine moved fast, attacked him in a hug, and they sank back down to the floor like weights were attached to their limbs.

"_Okay,"_ Kurt repeated into his shoulder, _"Okay_." And Blaine's arms wrapped strong and secure around him, heating support and release into his skin, and that unexplainable sense of safety and comfort that came from no magic at all—that made Kurt swell with the feeling that this embrace was _right_, the most right thing he had ever done—and Kurt cried again, but with relief—because he could—because it was okay.

"Okay," he breathed into Blaine. And Blaine turned into a truth, and warmed it back into his skin. _Okay._


	13. I'll Huff & Puff & Punch Your Face In

**A/N: The beginning of Act Two; an act I like to call "Proactivity and the Modern Teenager". I am so, so sorry for the wait–this chapter is a little longer than the others in compensation. Hello all you new readers, I hope your enjoying the story! Please don't be shy and feel free to leave constructive criticism! Or even just a little note saying hi.**

* * *

><p>Kurt turned off the car and took out the keys.<p>

Breathe in.

Calm.

Breathe out.

Even calmer.

No fear. No worries.

_Super calm._

Calm like no one had ever been calm before. Calm like he was breaking world records calm. Guinness couldn't even calculate his calmness, he was so calm. Cool, collected, and appropriately vicious. Looking fabulous—turtlenecks and gloves were a sleek _you-cannot-touch-me_ advertisement—and feeling great. No, scratch that, feeling _fantastic. _This was going to go fantastically. This was going to go so well he would sing a song about how well it went in glee club today. That's how absolutely confident and calm he was, because he had absolutely no nerves and no fear and—

"Would you like some help?" Blaine silently offered his hand beside him.

_"Yes,_" exploded out of Kurt, and the hand was gripped tightly in his own in seconds. Blaine laced their fingers together and Kurt's eyes closed in relief as reassurance warmed up his arm, calming the fluttering hummingbirds in his stomach.

"Thank you," he sighed gratefully. As Blaine's paranormal comfort traveled through his body, he realized he had drawn his shoulders up tight against his neck. Relaxing, he let them drop. Breathing in was much easier the second time.

_Okay. _That was wonderful. That had helped a lot. He didn't know what it was that made being around Blaine feel so comforting and safe, but he hoped whatever the cause it never went away. He gave Blaine's fingers a last, parting squeeze before slipping his hand away.

Or—attempting to, at any rate.

"What are you doing?" Blaine asked him, tightening his grip around Kurt's hand. Kurt turned to look at him in surprise.

"If anyone sees us like this, they're going to make assumptions," Kurt began. His eyes darted out the car window to the dumpster—where, had it been earlier in the day, there would have stood a gaggle of intellectually-challenged athletes. "They bullied me before I even came out. If they see you holding hands with me—"

"You'd prefer it if I let go?" Blaine interrupted bluntly.

"_No_," Kurt said much too emphatically to allow for plausible deniability later (_be more obvious, Kurt, I dare you)_. "Of course not, but—"

"Then I'm not letting go," Blaine said simply.

Kurt despaired. "Look, you _can't_ worry about being bullied yourself on top of dealing with everyone's emotions _and _helping me confront Karofsky. This isn't going to work!"

"Kurt," Blaine half-laughed, "You forget I spent most of my life without mental walls." Kurt hadn't forgotten, but that didn't make this any easier. "I'll be _fine_," Blaine insisted. A spike of surety accompanied his words, and the both of them glanced down at their intertwined hands in surprise. Kurt looked up to see Blaine studying their fingers, a curious little smile hooked up under his lips. He peeked up at Kurt under long lashes and Kurt felt his heart flutter. "Kurt, you don't have to worry. I've been to public school before. It's nothing I can't handle."

Kurt felt his mind stop, and he blinked rapidly to restart it. "What?" he asked blankly. "You can't just slip things in there like that without telling me the whole story!"

Blaine just grinned and opened the car door, stepping outside and pulling Kurt awkwardly along over the divider with him, their hands remaining glued together. Kurt shuffled over the other seat and refused to acknowledge his heart's skipping when Blaine's other hand moved around his waist to help steady him as he exited the car.

"You could be making all of this up, for all I know," he protested. "'Oh, it's okay, Kurt, I've been to public school before.' 'Of _course_ I've seen Sabrina the Teenage Witch!' 'Did I mention that I have no knowledge of any kind of cultural information from the last three years?' And you've never seen an iPod before in your life, but—don't tell me— you're best friends with Steve Jobs."

"It's why everyone loves Apple products so much," Blaine deadpanned. "They run on magic."

"You think you're so funny," Kurt sniffed. Blaine closed the car door behind Kurt and Kurt swallowed compulsively.

Now that he was outside of the safety of the car, all he wanted was to climb back in and lock the doors. Oh god. Karofsky was only feet away. And _Blaine _was coming with him, which could cause a whole other batch of problems and… He looked over at the school and felt himself drowning in trepidation.

Blaine's thumb stroked a soothing wave of support up through the back of his hand. Kurt closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath.

"It's going to be okay," Blaine told him softly. "We're going to make this okay."

Kurt nodded and opened his eyes.

Keeping a tight grip on Blaine's hand, he started walking toward the school.

—-

_"And it all started when he kissed you."_

_Kurt nodded, and watched carefully for any sign that the boy in front of him was going to run away and never speak to him again. Blaine was frowning, his attention drawn to some inward calculations he seemed to be performing. Kurt wondered if those calculations would tell him what to do._

_"I think," Blaine began, and then stopped. Kurt swallowed against a rising wave of hopelessness and resigned himself to watching Blaine's mental computation. If Blaine couldn't help him… As if unaware of itself, a tanned hand absent-mindedly reached for Kurt's arm and traced comfort into his veins. Kurt shivered as those gentle fingers drew patterns on his skin. "I need to feel him," Blaine said aloud, slowly, as he lightly sketched figure-eights of calming sensation up and down Kurt's arm. "You don't know what he's thinking, and that's what makes it so terrifying, right?" Kurt nodded even though Blaine hadn't turned to look at him. "So if we find out what he's feeling, maybe we can figure out a way to get through to him." _

_"And if he's feeling 'I really want to scare the crap out of a gay kid today'?" Kurt asked. Blaine's lips quirked upward._

_"People who lash out at others are usually in pain themselves," Blaine told him, meeting his eyes. "Bullying and prejudice: that kind of hate stems from ignorance. We need to teach him that it's okay, that this is nothing to be afraid of."_

_Kurt took that in as Blaine suddenly looked down at his arm in surprise._

_"I'm sorry!" He snatched his hand away, and Kurt lamented its loss immediately. "I didn't realize…" Blaine let out an embarrassed laugh. "I'm usually much better at controlling myself," he said, "I'm sorry."_

_"It's fine," Kurt breathed. Blaine sent him a shy smile._

_"Anyway," he cleared his throat. "It looks like you'll have to let me come to school with you after all."_

_Kurt felt his face pinch with worry. "Will you be all right there?" he asked. "There'll be so many other people to deal with…"_

_"It's not going to be a problem," Blaine said immediately, with a self-assurance that didn't sit right with everything Kurt had seen Blaine deal with so far._

_"You keep telling me to calm down," Kurt said suspiciously, "and that I'm overwhelming you. How is two hundred other people _not_ calming down and thus overwhelming you 'not going to be a problem'?"_

_"Well for starters, I don't plan on touching them," Blaine smiled, "and that will make them quieter. And secondly, with you…" he hesitated. Kurt's eyebrows raised. _With him? _"It's different with you," Blaine admitted. _

_"How?" Kurt asked in honest bewilderment._

_"You're… you feel things very deeply." _

_The words were careful. Kurt's eyes narrowed in scrutiny. Blaine wouldn't meet his eyes, and he couldn't help but feel there was something else he wasn't telling him._

_"And how often do you come across people like me?" he probed. _

_Blaine stayed silent._

_Then: "Going to school won't be a problem," he said firmly._

—-

The halls were silent as they walked into the school. It had only been two and a half hours since Kurt had left earlier that day, but it felt like he had barely been gone ten minutes. There were only a few more hours left before school would be out for the day and glee club would start.

The bell rang as they made their way to Kurt's locker, and the halls flooded with students all heading to the cafeteria. Kurt clutched tightly to Blaine's hand as a few bumped and jostled against him. Blaine remained stoically pleasant even as Kurt felt him tense a little next to him.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"It's just been a while. I'll be fine in a minute."

Sure enough, a few minutes later Blaine released a controlled breath and relaxed again. "Not a problem," he breathed, looking so proud of himself Kurt couldn't stop the swell of fondness that rose up inside his chest. Blaine looked at him in askance, but Kurt shook his head.

"Thank you for doing this with me," he said. Blaine's face softened.

"You shouldn't have to be terrified to live your life," he said quietly. "Anyone would have done the same."

Kurt was positive that wasn't true. It was what made Blaine's help that much more extraordinary—the fact that Blaine didn't even realize his actions were so unusual.

They didn't run into any of Kurt's friends while they made their way down the halls (thankfully—Kurt didn't want to see the assumptions written on their faces as they caught sight of them). A few people Kurt didn't know shot them strange looks, but Blaine's hand felt warm and comforting in his own so Kurt sent his own look right on back. _That's right, he's holding my hand_. _Did you want to do something about it? _(It seemed the answer was "no", as almost all of the kids glanced away the minute they made eye contact. A tiny buzz of victory hummed fierce inside his stomach with each turn of the head.)

They reached the locker relatively unscathed, and Kurt froze as he caught sight of Karofsky passing down the adjacent hallway. Blaine's fingers tightened around his own.

"That's him?" he asked urgently. Kurt could only nod. They watched as the jock made his way through the crowd of students. "We should do this in a public place," Blaine murmured. "We don't want a repeat of the first time you tried to confront him."

"No," Kurt said shakily. "That wouldn't be ideal."

Blaine tugged his hand and they headed down into the hallway, settling a few steps behind Karofsky. Kurt tensed as they drew closer to him, crossing the fingers of his free hand in empty prayer.

They were a turn away from the cafeteria when Karofsky suddenly broke off and turned around. Kurt's heart jumped into his throat as the bully gave them a hard glare.

"Would you stop following me?" he demanded, glancing around the emptying hallway.

"We just want to talk," Blaine said, holding out his free hand in a gesture of surrender. Karofsky gave him a blatant once-over—lingering on their clasped hands—before ignoring him and turning to Kurt.

"This your boyfriend, Kurt?" he asked, eyes unreadable. Kurt's teeth clenched together.

"Why, planning on kissing him too?" he bit out. Karofsky's eyes darted panicked around the hall at their apparently deaf peers. Turning the full force of his glare back to the two if them, he scoffed. He gave Blaine one more lasting look before shouldering in between the two, breaking their hands apart and heading away from them. Kurt watched as Blaine's head snapped around to watch him go, a speculative look in his eyes. He could almost _see_ the whirring of Blaine's thoughts as they flew around his brain. Then, suddenly—

Blaine took off after Karofsky. "Blaine!" Kurt reached out to stop him but he was a second too late, Blaine's hand slipping just out of his reach. Kurt's hand felt naked without its warmth. "Wait!" He ran to catch up.

Blaine had clasped his fingers around Karofsky's wrist before Kurt could do anything, and like lightning Karofsky shoved him up _hard _against the wall. Kurt winced in sympathetic pain at the force of it. "I said _stop it_," Karofsky growled. Blaine's hand stayed tight around his wrist, digging in firmly as he kept eye contact. Kurt didn't know who to be more worried for in that moment: Blaine, or Karofsky.

"It's okay to be scared," Blaine said firmly, sparks of amber floating in his eyes as he stared Karofsky down. "This is scary. It's confusing. But taking all of that out on Kurt won't change anything. You know that." He must have been trying to calm Karofsky down because the jock's breathing was evening out as Blaine spoke, Blaine's grip loosening a little as it did so. Kurt stayed tense and watching, waiting for a moment he might have to step in.

"You aren't alone in this," Blaine said quietly. "Not if you don't want to be."

And suddenly it was like something had reared up inside of Karofsky—a fast violence manifesting itself in a fist that came crashing towards Blaine's face—

Kurt moved, _shoved _with all of his might, a hurricane of fury because Blaine had just been trying to help and he didn't deserve this, _Kurt_ didn't deserve this, and he was _so sick of it, _Karofsky needed to _take his own damn advice and just_ _stop!_

He hadn't realized he had said the last part aloud until he caught sight of Karofsky, who looked an alarming mix of stunned and distressed. Kurt felt a twinge of reluctant sympathy.

"You… Just stay away from me!" Karofsky snarled before taking off down the hallway. The sympathy was swept away by a surge of irritation. _That works both ways, idiot! _Kurt wanted to scream. Anger bubbled up from the pit of his stomach, boiling down his arms, his legs, through his feet. Well, that had been utterly _useless. _And he had been so positive Blaine would ride into school with him on a white horse and save the stupid day. Kurt kicked a nearby locker in frustration.

"That went well," came Blaine's flippant voice. Kurt shot him a look out of the corners of his eyes. Blaine gave a wide-eyed, defensive shrug, his raised eyebrows crying innocence. Kurt shook his head, not in the mood.

"He's just as scared as you are, you know," Blaine continued in that quiet way he favored.

"That's really not helpful," Kurt snapped. "And not what I want to hear right now."

Blaine frowned but didn't say anything, instead taking to watching him angrily pace the hall. "What am I supposed to do now?" Kurt asked anxiously, the boiling itch of his anger keeping him moving. "We've only made things worse!"

"We haven't."

"And how do you know?" Kurt cried.

"We haven't," Blaine repeated frankly. The confidence in his voice was like a balm to Kurt's prickling bones, allowing him to slow down. To stop. Kurt looked at the boy in front of him and remembered that Blaine knew everything—that this was the one boy in his entire world that understood _everything_—and he felt his anger melt away.

In the quiet of the hallway, alone with only Blaine to witness him: he let himself be scared.

"What if this doesn't change anything?" he heard himself asking, feeling so much smaller than he was. "What if he just keeps… keeps doing things?"

Blaine's eyes held a care Kurt had never received from another boy.

"Then you tell me," Blaine said. "And we do something a little more drastic."

Kurt's jaw trembled slightly before he got it under control, breathing deeply to stop himself from crying. He nodded once, tightly.

Under honeyed scrutiny, Kurt pulled himself back together. He jumped a little when he felt a hand on his shoulder, before realizing it was just that—a hand. No influencing warmth or reassurance or comfort flowed into him, and Kurt turned to look at Blaine in confusion. The other boy only smiled kindly back.

"Do you have that singing club today?" Blaine asked helpfully. Kurt's confusion didn't lift.

"Yes," he said slowly.

"Why don't we go wait in the classroom until it starts?" Blaine squeezed his shoulder. "You can show me around. Sing me something."

Kurt felt the smallest of smiles fizz just behind his lips.

He wondered at how a boy who had randomly appeared in his backyard one night had, in the course of a week, become one of his closest friends.

"That sounds like a suitable activity to occupy ourselves with," he said lightly. Lacing their fingers together once more—because he could, because he wanted to—Kurt led Blaine to the choir room.

His mind spun with appropriate songs to sing.


	14. More Than One Way to Blow Down a House

**A/N:** **Flangst ahoy, dear readers! This chapter comes with links for added viewing pleasure: If you want some extra spice in your sauce,** **direct yourself to **_.com/watch?v=rmkNBKu2fr0_ **for the song sung in the first part of this chapter (or, if you're one of those people who dislike genderbending voices in your mind,** **here at **_.com/watch?v=oy69cf0uda0_** is the same song sung by two guys****–although I think the former is the better version and is what I based the scene on).** **If you don't know the song at the end of the chapter, feel free to** **visit **_.com/watch?v=9-8gn6vGu_w_**. ****Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Blaine was looking at the piano like it was his long lost grandmother back from the dead. He had opened the top the minute he'd walked into the room, poring over the little strings and mallets inside for long, awe-filled minutes before closing it and <em>stroking <em>over the sides, the crown, the lid… Kurt was pretty sure he'd lost a few years of his life from the awful frustration of watching Blaine worship the instrument in front of him.

"Do you play?" he finally found the voice to ask—redundantly, he felt, seeing as how Blaine had already opened the lid and begun caressing the keys (_and really, if he continued this any further, Kurt honestly couldn't be held accountable for the things he might do to him_).

"I used to," Blaine replied, voice eons away. His eyes embraced the instrument tenderly, like a long-lost lover. "A long time ago." The words floated on the air like vapors and Kurt had to literally restrain himself against the opposite side of the piano in order to stop himself from kissing him.

_This boy._

Seriously.

"I've taken lessons for years," Kurt admitted, leaning against the glossy wood. "I wouldn't say I'm that amazing at it, though."

"Do you have a favorite song?" Blaine asked, an endearing excitement animating his features. Bubbles foamed up Kurt's lungs, inflating him with contentment. Blaine grinned back at him and Kurt realized the tickling feeling in his lips was a smile.

"Well…" Kurt began, fighting the blush threatening to stain his cheeks. "There's… there's this one song I've been dying to sing with someone, but…"

"What is it?" Blaine asked immediately, settling himself down on the bench and setting his hands on the keys. Kurt allowed himself a moment of hesitation before plunging his hand into his bag and coming up with his music folder.

"This," he said, handing the sheet music over. His limbs hummed with excitement as Blaine set it down on the stand, scrutinizing a few pages. Blaine let out a quiet laugh.

"This might be a little too difficult to sight-read," he began apologetically, "I haven't played in years." He spread the sheets out, thumbing through to the end. Kurt collapsed a little, dispirited. Then:

"You could play one hand, and I'll play the other?" Blaine looked over hopefully.

Kurt inflated like a balloon. "Yes!" he said, jumping up and clapping his hand together. "Yes, let's do that! You'll sing it with me?" Blaine nodded, hastily moving over and patting the bench beside him, where Kurt happily came to sit. They were a little closer than they needed to be, but Kurt didn't mind—he certainly had no intention of moving, and Blaine looked pretty comfortable where he was.

"Let's try the first page just to get the hang of it," Blaine enthused, placing his hand on the keys. Kurt did the same.

They had to restart a few times to get the rhythm of it, and there were a few clumsy tangling of fingers and even more nervous giggles. But it was the easy action of _playing a song together _that really mattered to Kurt: the press of their sides together; the light brush of fingers as their parts overlapped; the quiet nod Blaine gave to Kurt as the first verse began.

Kurt took a breath, and, self-conscious, loosed his voice out into the room.

_"Let me run through a field in the night_  
><em>Let me lift from the ground til my soul is in flight."<em>

"_Let me sway like the shade of a tree_," Blaine sang tentatively, voice small and timid. "_Let me swirl like a cloud in a storm on the sea._

_Wish me on my way."_

_"Through the dawning day, I…"_

_"Wanna flow, wanna rise, wanna spill. _  
><em>Wanna grow in a grove on the side of a hill."<em>

Their voices together sounded even better than Kurt had imagined they would, if a little too quiet for him to really let loose. They still stumbled on the piano part—nowhere near flawless—but Blaine wasn't kidding when he said he could play. He was incredibly good at sight-reading, barely missing a note, and Kurt wondered, in a distant part of his mind, what it would have been like if Blaine had always been here in the choir room with him—beside him just like this, building this tentative, half-corporeal almost-something. Kurt would've had someone to duet with a few weeks ago. Someone to sing songs to—who might have made him feel like more than just the left-over gay kid.

Letting all of his self-consciousness dissolve, Kurt let himself loose—purging his frustrations and his fear and his fervent wish to just be _somewhere else_—everything, in song.

_"Let me leave behind_  
><em>All the clouds in my mind I<em>  
><em>Wanna wake without wondering why <em>  
><em>Finding myself in a burst for the sky!"<em>

And somewhere along an extended note, something _clicked_—and suddenly the music was flowing between them without pause or stagger, and Blaine was singing with him unhesitating and powerful, matching his voice with every crescendo and decrescendo, every change in intensity, every beautiful harmony—soaring with his over increasingly more sure chords, their hands pounding passion into the keys, the music painting the air around them in broad, lush, electrifying strokes.

_"__Let me run through a field in the night,__  
><em>_Let me lift from the ground til my soul is in flight! __  
><em>_Let me sway like the shade of a tree,__  
><em>_Let me swirl like a cloud in a storm on the sea!"_

_"Wish me on my way…" _Kurt didn't even have to force himself to look at the sheet music _(wish me on my way_, _he sang)_. There was something magnetic about the boy beside him—something uninhibited and passionate and—_"Through the dawning day…"_

_"I…" _

But they didn't have to look at each other. Whatever it was—magic, perception, something in the music—it flowed between them. In the brush of their fingers…

_"Wanna flow, wanna rise, wanna spill…"_

In the warmth of the press of their arms…

_"Wanna grow on the side of a hill…._"

In the rhythm of their playing… In the cadence of their voices…

_"Wanna shift like a wave rolling on."__  
><em>_"Wanna drift from the path _  
><em>I've been traveling upon…"<em>

Blaine's hands slowed, then stopped. Kurt followed, his own fingers suddenly shy of the keys in front of them. In the quiet of the room, without the music, their voices resonated soft and nearly shattered:

_"Before I am… gone…"_

The room was spun-glass. Fragile.

They sat covering themselves in the feathered down of silence in fear of breaking it.

"You have a…" Blaine's voice dusted the air, "a really beautiful voice."

Kurt couldn't catch his breath. "Thank you," he exhaled. "You're not so bad yourself."

He turned to look at him, finally, and saw that Blaine's face was painted with a subtle, velvet smile. "I haven't done that in so long," he murmured down at the piano, eyes glossed wistful with nostalgia. "That was amazing."

There was a beat of stillness, and then Blaine glanced up at Kurt with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"How long until your singing club starts?" he asked. Kurt felt like the cat that had just been offered extra cream.

"Another hour or so yet," he said, barely restraining his anticipation.

Blaine grinned and they both reached for the music folder at the same time, Blaine laughing loudly in victory as he grabbed it first, holding it above his head in a ridiculously poor attempt to keep it away from Kurt (who was not only taller than him but also significantly close enough to render a move like that pathetically useless). Kurt snatched it back without a problem and immediately started rifling through the sheet music inside, pretending the warm glow spreading down his chest from his cheeks wasn't because of the proximity of their bodies as Blaine leaned over him to point out songs he knew.

What proceeded, Kurt was positive, could have been a deleted scene from _Music and Lyrics_ (Kurt was a slightly less obnoxious and more stylish Drew Barrymore). They sang for hours—sometimes fun and flirty duets, sometimes just Kurt, with Blaine on the piano, eyes more intent on the boy singing to him than the music in front of his fingers. Kurt would have offered to play, but Blaine was so ecstatic handling the instrument in front of him that Kurt was loathe to take the experience away from him. Blaine grew bolder and more vibrant with each song, and Kurt matched him, then outmatched him, then found himself being matched again and it was like they were daring each other to be louder, be fuller, be more exuberant than the other. At some point, accompaniment became extraneous, and they darted around the room, climbing furniture and teasing each other, and Kurt had never felt more childlike in his life. Blaine's eyes were shining with an unrestrained joy that quickened Kurt's heart and flushed through his veins and Kurt wondered if this wasn't a kind of magic after all.

It was quickly becoming one of the best afternoons of Kurt's life—second only to the first time his dad had sat down to pretend-tea with him after his mother died, and a vague memory of seeing _The Sound of Music _at the local community theater much earlier than that.

They had just finished the most sexually-provoking version of _Baby It's Cold Outside _Kurt had ever participated in (give Blaine a Gaga classic and he was hopeless, but suggest an Irving Berlin or a Cole Porter and suddenly he not only knew all the words, but executed them in impeccable style), having collapsed laughing against the piano bench and proceeding to pretend nothing else existed outside of their softened gazes and the rise and fall of their chests—when Rachel Berry's applause tore through their fabricated fantasy world like a chainsaw.

Kurt jumped and went to move away, but Blaine's steady hand on the small of his back kept him still.

Right. Other people existed outside of the choir room, Kurt Hummel.

_And inside, clearly._

"That was simply lovely!" Rachel proclaimed, skipping into the room in a truly hideous frock and navy knee-highs. Kurt wondered how many people she'd had to kill in order to walk out of the house looking like that. "I'm sorry for interrupting, but I just had to get that out. I'm Rachel Berry."

Blaine shot a lightning-quick but knowing glance to Kurt (Kurt's selective memory suddenly decided to remind him of the many, many times he'd come home during the past week to rant at Blaine about the New Directions and their insanity, and he had to swallow an incredibly inappropriate giggle.) He moved his hand from Kurt's back to offer it to Rachel, "Blaine. I've heard a lot about you, Rachel."

They clasped hands.

And Blaine's gaze suddenly sharpened, and he promptly forgot about Kurt's entire existence.

_…Huzzah._

Rachel continued speaking as if she didn't realize she was slowly tearing down all of the progress Kurt had made with Blaine in the last two hours _(flirty duets! What happened to the flirty duets!)_.

"All about my superior vocal prowess, no doubt," she stated in a way that really allowed for no argument (despite Kurt's urge to start one). "Mercedes and Tina have told me all about what little they know of you, of course—not like Kurt's going to tell us anything, he's been so secretive—it's really a pleasure to meet you! You have a _lovely_ voice."

"Thank you! I haven't sung in a while; I was just getting back into the swing of it with Kurt."

"Well, you certainly fooled me! You and Kurt sounded wonderful together—it's been a while since we've heard him sing a song like that in glee club. Maybe you can get him to give me some real competition again this week!"

Rachel was talking in that slightly condescending way she did when she was impressed with someone, as if she was astonished anyone could sing besides her. Blaine was grinning in that surprised way he did when he was charmed by someone, as if he didn't expect himself to be quite as taken with a person as he was.

Kurt was staring in that wide-eyed way he did when his ultimate enemy and the love of his life looked like they were about to fall in love with each other, as if by staring he could prevent such a tragedy from occurring.

It didn't work.

"Are you thinking of joining glee club?" Rachel asked, arranging herself next to Blaine on the piano bench. Blaine's hand moved stubbornly to her arm, eyes tracking her as she sat down. In fact, he couldn't seem to keep his eyes _off_ her. Kurt's jaw clenched tightly shut and his gaze was toxic as he wondered what the hell could be so interesting about whatever Blaine was feeling from Rachel Berry that made her so impossibly hard to look away from. _(He's gay, he's gay, he's gay, he's gay, he's gay, he's gay, he's gay)_

"…ust here to visit," Blaine was demurring (and still _looking _at her, and that stupid hand was _still on her stupid arm)_.

"Well, you really should consider it. Your warm tenor is really just a thrill to listen to." Rachel smiled sweetly.

"That's very kind of you to say."

"I'm just being honest," Rachel shifted closer to Blaine (as if she wasn't close enough already). She could probably catch fruit flies with that smile. "We could use a voice like yours. And you're very charming; you wouldn't need any help winning the judges over." Blaine was _blushing_, smiling that adorably shy smile,and _honestly, _Kurt could come up with less generic compliments in his _sleep_.

"That's—that's very kind, thank you."

"With your old-school allure and my undeniable talent, I can't imagine we wouldn't win at Regionals, and your _stature_ is perfect: you won't tower over me like some of the other members, but you'll still—"

"He's not interested," Kurt interrupted from his seat bluntly. Rachel blinked rapidly in astonishment, and he leaned over and smiled sweetly, wiggling his fingers to wave at the both of them. Just in case they had maybe forgotten he was there. Still. Sitting right next to them_. _He almost missed it when Blaine's lips pressed together to suppress the laughter that silently shook his shoulders.

Almost. But he didn't.

He also didn't miss it when Blaine decided to assure him of his continued awareness of Kurt's presence by bouncing the foot of his crossed leg against Kurt's own as he continued his conversation with Rachel.

Nope. Didn't miss that.

"How long have you been friends with Kurt?" he asked kindly. Kurt breathed in deeply to give his heart more room in his chest, as it seemed to have swollen a little within the past two seconds.

"Well, we've known each other since middle school…"

And so on they carried, Rachel talking and Blaine listening (and watching), but never stopping the playful toy of his foot against Kurt's, apparently intent on giving him a heart attack before the end of the day.

They were going to have to have a talk about the flirting. Like, they really, _really _needed to have a talk about the flirting because this _had_ to be classified as sending mixed signals and god, he didn't know his heart could beat any faster.

(Especially the flirting in regards to whatever the hell was going on with Rachel Berry because Kurt _would like to know, _please_._)

_"Is that who I think it is?"_ someone suddenly cried from the door. Blaine's head snapped around in surprise as Tina and Mercedes ran over. "Blaine, right?"

And then there were five, and Kurt wondered if maybe this was too much as Tina and Mercedes introduced themselves and sent pointed looks in Kurt's direction and proceeded to have emotions like normal human beings (Mercedes caught sight of their toying feet and sent him a significant glance that ended up turning into a whole conversation of glances, only ending with an emphatic shake of the head from Kurt). Somehow, Rachel got them conspiring to try to convince Blaine to be an honorary member of the glee club (Kurt had no idea why she was so intent on it, but she kept gesturing to _Kurt_ with her eyes whenever she mentioned it, and really, cryptic planning was just not her forte). Meanwhile, Blaine was looking a little confused, but also a lot amused, and so Kurt assumed the girls' craziness was manageable.

That was when the chaos started.

"Hey, I thought you didn't want him to come today?" Finn asked, a grin spreading across his face as he entered the room. He moved to clap Blaine on the back, seemingly not noticing Rachel until she placed her hand a little possessively over Blaine's and cleared her throat (and Kurt didn't know when Blaine suddenly became the main objective of a territory war, but once Rachel started, it was like a battle cry in a game of I-knew-him-first. Mercedes and Tina kept touching him in tiny moments of ownership, and Finn took everything personally and kept a protective hand on Blaine's shoulder while he gave Rachel a hard look).

"You didn't want him to come?" Tina cried out, scandalized. "What?" She grabbed Blaine's knee from where she was kneeling in protest and Finn patted Blaine's shoulder in what was probably supposed to be a show of support.

"I changed my mind," Kurt said distantly, a little preoccupied with the faraway look creeping into Blaine's eyes.

"Coma-dude!" _("Blaine," Finn corrected)_ Puck came bounding in, punching him in the arm. "Long time no see! Last night was awesome, man!"

"Who's the pygmy?" Santana sauntered over, attempting to link arms with Finn (and failing).

"He's not _that_ short," Rachel protested.

"Oh please, Dorothy. He's like a member of the Lollipop Guild. Look at that hair!"

"So his hair is a little over-stylized. Do you always have to bring everyone else down all the time?"

"Yes."

"I didn't know Hummel got himself a boyfriend!"

Blaine's expression hadn't changed from _friendly grin™, _but his foot had stopped bouncing against Kurt's and the hand that wasn't trapped in Rachel's grip was slowly creeping up around his stomach. As if that wasn't enough of a flashing warning sign, the vacancy in his eyes was a pretty clear signal to Kurt that Blaine was no longer in the building.

"—that they're boyfriends, Lauren—"

"Oh, get off your high horse, Berry, it was a joke."

"Obviously. Can you seriously see Hummel getting a piece of _that_?"

"Are you for real? You were _just_ making fun of his height two seconds ago!"

Kurt's mind was racing. Was this what Blaine meant when he said he got overwhelmed–was this overwhelmed? Should Kurt step in? Or did Blaine have a handle on it, would he just perform another invisible mental technique and be fine in a few minutes? What was he supposed to do? Should Kurt take him out of the choir room? What was he supposed to do?

"So he's small; doesn't mean he don't got a big—"

"Dude, he's like _right_ here."

"Are we at a zoo?" he finally exclaimed. "Seriously? Visiting hours are over for the day." A few people broke off their arguments and glanced at him strangely, and he proceeded to make little shooing motions with his hands. "Go on! The bearded lady is in the other room."

"I think you're mixing your metaphors," Sam pointed out (_and when did he get here, anyway?)_.

"Don't worry, I'm sure someone's feeding her," Brittany told him, nodding in reassurance. Kurt's eyes turned to the ceiling for guidance.

"Hey guys!" Mr. Schuester entered into the room and things seemed to finally have an order again.

Everyone turned to him, the chatter dying down.

"What are we all doing standing around?" Mr. Schue asked. "Take your seats, we're presenting our songs today!"

And finally, _finally_, everyone moved away, letting go of Blaine and filing into their seats.

(Kurt thanked the ceiling.)

Under cover of their chatter, he leaned close to the still-stunned boy next to him.

"Are you all right?" he murmured. Blaine, thankfully, seemed to be back behind the wheel again. He nodded quickly, breathing in like he had spent the last few minutes underwater.

"Bit of a surprise attack," he told Kurt, looking a little spooked. "F-forgot what those felt like. You weren't kidding when you said your friends were intense."

"Kurt?" Schue interrupted them, looking curiously between the two. "Did you want to go first? Who's your friend?"

"That's Blaine," Finn provided helpfully from his seat.

…And then remained silent, as if that was all the explanation that was needed.

Kurt shook his head in disbelief, questioning his faith in humanity.

"Blaine's living with us for a while," Kurt began. Someone whistled—probably Santana—but Kurt ignored it and continued: "He wanted to come watch glee club, since I talk about it so much. If that's okay?"

"Blaine's cool, Mr. Schue," Puck added. "He's totally not a spy."

Schue blinked and looked towards Blaine, who was currently doing his best impression of an abandoned puppy. He shrugged. "I don't see why he can't stay," he said. Kurt's eyes closed briefly in victory and he grabbed Blaine's hand, leading him over to the least populated seating area. A flash of hurt passed across Mercedes' face as they sat down, and Kurt sent her an apologetic glance. They really _would _have to hang out soon.

"Mr. Schue, if I may?" Rachel's hand shot into the air. Schue nodded to her. "If Kurt doesn't mind, I have the perfect song to start off today."

"Kurt?" Mr. Schue looked at him.

Kurt gracefully shrugged and gestured to the floor, intending to indicate it was all hers.

"Go ahead, Rachel." Mr. Schue moved to sit in a vacant chair next to Finn. She jumped up excitedly and moved to the piano, where Brad had settled himself quietly when no one was looking.

Blaine placed a warm hand on his knee and leaned in close. Kurt had to force himself to breathe.

"Are you friends with Rachel?" he asked as the girl in question headed up to the center of the room. Kurt raised an eyebrow as Rachel began singing.

"'Friends' is a very broad term," he hedged, wondering where this was going.

"You don't like her?" Blaine sounded confused. (_But Blaine was practically glued to her five minutes ago, so that wasn't really a surprise_)

"She's the Elphaba to my Glinda," Kurt explained shortly. "Pre-Ozdust Ballroom." They watched as Rachel started singing about people needing people being lucky, somehow both emulating and copying Barbra's singular performance_._ "The air vibrates with large orchestral chords of doom whenever she enters a room."

Blaine huffed a short, silent laugh, turning to hide his face briefly in the shoulder of Kurt's turtleneck in order to avoid interrupting the performance. Tingles raced up Kurt's spine and prickled his arms.

"Why do you ask?" he whispered, trying to ignore the clash of foreboding and lightness warring inside his chest. "What did you feel from her?"

Blaine shook his head, eyes glued on the girl in front of them.

"She really cares about you," he said. "She's very sweet."

Kurt felt a pang of jealousy hit his gut, in the soured place that kept a tally of every time Rachel had won something over him, or at his expense, and the foreboding won out.

"Is she?" he muttered viciously. "She must be hiding it under the thick layer of obnoxious she assaults everyone with. Is that why you couldn't take your eyes off her?"

Blaine stayed quiet, watching Rachel as she belted out those final powerhouse notes.

_A feeling deep in your soul__  
><em>_Says you were half, now you're whole…_

"…She's lonely," he said quietly, compassion and a strange kind of longing etched into his features. "Very much so."

Kurt watched him watching her, feeling hot and angry and confused. He turned away, crossing his arms to stop himself from strangling something. How could Blaine be so flirty and touchy with him, insisting on staying close and holding hands and sending him those _looks_ (_and_ _no, Kurt hasn't been completely oblivious, thank you, he's _noticed _those today_), and then turn around and look at Rachel like—like _that?_ Was he _missing _something?

_But first be a person who needs people…_

Kurt blinked as Blaine's hand untangled his arm from its rigid pretzel and wove into his fingers, squeezing tightly. He moved to pull away—because he really didn't need any more confusing signals today, his wires were already frayed—when Blaine's grip tightened. Kurt turned to look at him in surprise, but Blaine was still looking at Rachel. That weird echo of longing still—just like with the piano, earlier, like when he'd first met Kurt's dad, like…

Kurt felt something in him uncoil and, at the same time, something begin to swell up inside his throat. He tightened his hand around Blaine's. This wasn't about assuring Kurt of anything. This wasn't about Rachel. This was about Blaine, needing support, because she must be reminding him of someone or something that…

This wasn't about Rachel at all.

Kurt's chest was waterlogged with embarrassment and guilt. This was what happened when he assumed everything was about him: the people he loved would be hurting, and he wouldn't even realize because he was so busy defending himself that by the time he finally woke up, they'd be in the hospital having a heart attack.

Kurt closed his eyes and swallowed thickly as the liquid in his chest sloshed up into his throat.

Rachel finished the song, and bowed—and when Blaine extricated his hand to clap loudly, cheering encouragements that made Rachel's grin light up the room… Kurt stood up and clapped louder.


	15. Yes or No, Clarice?

A/N:** I am so sorry I'm not updating on a schedule, guys; this story is giving me such a hard time it isn't even funny. I was having the hardest time writing this chapter, specifically. When I couldn't riddle out how to write a certain section, I'd just skip ahead and continue writing the story–which means I've got most of the next chapter written (yay!), so I should be updating that within the next few days.**

**To those of you who comment, you are absolutely incredible, and the reason I write this story. Thank you for giving me your thoughts and your time. And hello to all of you new readers! I hope you're enjoying the story so far!**

* * *

><p>New Directions tolerated Blaine in the choir room.<p>

Kurt loved him in the choir room.

So, he kept bringing him along. Or rather, Blaine kept showing up once Kurt told him he'd love to have him there. He had no idea how—it probably had something to do with Blaine's mysterious hyper-speed—but Blaine was always waiting for them in the choir room whenever glee was about to start. Kurt got the impression that Blaine wanted to be there as much as Kurt wanted him there-the huge, ever-present grin on his face was a huge clue leading him to that conclusion.

(There was also something going on with Blaine and Karofsky. Kurt had caught them having some kind of intense stare-off in the doorway to choir room last week, Blaine's hand in a vice grip around Karofsky's arm. Kurt didn't know what was going on, but ever since, Karofsky hadn't so much as spared a glance towards him. He didn't like to think that one of the reasons Blaine kept coming to glee club was because he was acting like some kind of guard dog. Not that he wasn't grateful for the change in attitude, but a tiny voice in the back of his head persisted to grumble about needing any kind of protection at all from anyone—even Blaine.)

But, back to the choir room: Blaine brought a different kind of energy, an unconditional support, that hadn't really been there before—at least, not for Kurt. Kurt thought it was the honest enjoyment he exuded every time he clapped after a performance, the care he took to take the time to tell people specifically what he liked about their song. Kurt especially liked his woefully misguided attempts at spinning a criticism into a compliment. He'd say the bluntest things with a kind smile, as if not even realizing the effect his words were having on his intended audience—sometimes being so unintentionally offensive that Kurt had to resort to fairly obvious attempts to hide his laughter.

"You're very _passionate_…"

He did that a lot.

"And that's not a bad thing, per se, but I just wonder if you need all of that passion in _this song_."

Almost every time he opened his mouth, really.

"I feel like you're pounding your heartbreak over my head with a sledgehammer."

Kurt had a coughing fit and had to cover his face with both hands. A few members of the glee club behind him weren't as subtle in their amusement.

"I'm sorry?" Rachel looked baffled, her newly-dry eyes widening in disbelief.

"Have you ever tried just whispering the lyrics to someone? And then use the subtlety the whispering gave you in the actual song. Like with a monologue," Blaine added helpfully.

"But how I sang it is how I would say it if it were a monologue."

"_Really_?" Blaine mirrored her bafflement.

"_Thank _you! This is what I've been trying to say since we started this party!" Santana cried out. "Horse-face needs to tone it down. I'm liking Tom Thumb more every day."

"What about the rest of his fingers?" came Brittany's airy voice.

"I think you sounded great," Finn added from the sidelines.

Rachel's expression was growing more and more uncomprehending with each passing minute. Kurt was amazed that a boy so intuned to others' emotions could be so oblivious to his effect on them.

"Ok guys, that's enough! It's not Pick On Rachel day. Thank you for that advice, Blaine, I'm sure Rachel will take it into account," Mr. Schue jumped in, patting Rachel on the shoulder and gesturing for her to sit down. Kurt glanced up at Mercedes, but couldn't catch her eye. She didn't look half as amused as he'd thought she would.

She must still be upset with him.

It had been two weeks since he'd brought Blaine to school that first day, and ever since, it seemed they'd been spending more and more time together. Trips to the Lima Bean, fawning over Vogue (Kurt had helped Blaine realize his liking for the magazine fairly early in their friendship), watching movies together, staying after practice to sing duets (the only time Blaine would sing in the choir room). He knew she was feeling left out, and he hated that they were growing apart, but it was just so _easy_ with Blaine. Blaine knew everything—he never had to explain himself to him, and he never had to fill awkward pauses—because it was almost never awkward between them. And there was something addicting about being with him; like a food with just the right amount of salt, or the perfect thrift store hunt. No matter how much time he spent with Blaine, he always wanted more.

And, unfortunately, his relationship with Mercedes was suffering because of it.

"Okay," Mr. Schue was saying, and Kurt blinked rapidly to focus. "So go home, and don't forget to think of songs that are about _nostalgia_!"

As soon as he finished speaking, the glee club erupted with conversation. Kurt remained seated as they made their way out of the room (whether or not he and Blaine were staying after to sing together today, they always had to wait for the others to leave first. New Directions was still a little too much emotion for Blaine to handle when faced with that much proximity.)

Blaine kept his eyes on Rachel, something sad and haunted in their depths. Kurt watched him out of the corner of his eye, silently sitting in his chair. The room slowly grew quiet, the loud conversations trickling away to travel with their various conductors. In the silence, Blaine turned away and bent to grab Kurt's bag for him (as he had recently been wont to do).

Kurt trained his attention on him carefully.

"Who does she remind you of?"

Blaine froze, eyes wide.

"…Sorry?" he asked.

"Rachel," Kurt clarified, tilting his head to make sense of Blaine's expression. "Who does she remind you of?"

Blaine stood unmoving, staring back at him. He shook his head. "It's not important." The bag settled on his shoulders. "No one."

"It doesn't look like no one," Kurt disputed, watching as Blaine moved to the piano—a move Kurt had come to recognize as Blaine's bid for safety in the choir room. "You've been fixating on her for the past two weeks."

"I like her."

"Not _that_ much," Kurt protested, even as the embers of jealousy started to light at the pit of his stomach. He brushed them away as Blaine's fingers drew circles on top of black lacquer. "She reminds you of something. You look at her the same way you look at my dad. At the piano."

Blaine snatched his hand away from the instrument as if burnt. "I'd rather not talk about it, Kurt, if that's all right with you." He handed Kurt his bag and moved too-quickly toward the doors.

"Blaine," Kurt started as Blaine moved passed him. "I've told you_ all_ my secrets."

It was the wrong thing to say. Blaine whirled around to look at him, eyes blazing.

"And you think I owe you the same?" he asked harshly. "Just because—"

"No," Kurt interrupted desperately, "That's not what I meant, I—"

"—you tell me what's bothering you, so I _owe _it to you to tell you—"

"No!"

"—right? Because that's—"

"—You don't owe me _anything_. You've _helped_ me. Blaine, please, you've let me share some of the things that have been really bothering me, and I can't tell you how much that _helps_; just knowing somebody else knows! Why won't you let me do the same for you?"

Blaine stared at him, angry, before he turned and swept his eyes around the room.

"You don't _have _to, I just… thought it would _help_," Kurt turned up his hands feebly.

Blaine turned his head to look at him again, and the anger bled away. "Kurt," he began pleadingly, and he probably went on to say something else, but Kurt didn't hear it—because right behind him was Karofsky, looming in the open doorway like a fairy tale dragon, and the rest of the world drained of color and fell away.

He was vaguely aware of Blaine turning around, but it was only when he felt warm fingers encircling his own that everything shifted back into place again.

Kurt blinked away his fear. "What are you doing here?" he asked sharply. Blaine remained silent next to him, intent on Karofsky's face.

"Some of the guys were talking about a new kid hanging around you," Karofsky said roughly. "I thought he didn't go here."

Kurt's eyebrows drew down in confusion. "He doesn't," he said slowly. "He just comes to visit me."

Karofsky scuffed his shoe against the floor and shifted onto another foot, eyes darting around the choir room. Kurt shared a glance with Blaine, but Blaine looked as confused as he was.

"Yeah, well, the guys think he does. Say he's your boyfriend."

"He doesn't," Kurt repeated, purposely ignoring the second assumption (it wasn't any of their business, anyway). Karofsky looked at Blaine, and Blaine watched him carefully. Kurt glanced between the two, confusion and wariness mounting.

"We're here every afternoon," Blaine finally spoke, his voice a strange combination of steel and gentleness.

Karofsky scoffed and looked away. "Yeah, whatever," he mumbled. "Not like I care."

"Why'd you come here then?" Kurt asked, exasperated. Karofsky sent him a look, and Kurt realized that was the first time the jock had looked in his direction since the conversation started. Not for the first time, Kurt wondered what it was Blaine had done to the bully that day he caught them in the choir room.

"The guys were talking about you," he said as if it were obvious.

Kurt still didn't get it.

"We'll keep an eye out," Blaine told him.

And it clicked.

Oh.

_Thank you_, Kurt almost said. Except that when he opened his mouth to try, a hundred different memories of being slammed into lockers and leered at from across rooms and being forcibly kissed in something he really, really, _really _never wanted to feel again laced his lips shut. Instead, he watched as Karofsky stood there, waiting for something Kurt was not ready to give him.

Then, the jock rolled his eyes, sent one more look at Blaine… and left.

Kurt straightened, feeling a little off-kilter, but also a little more sturdy. He heard a sigh beside him.

"He's getting there," Blaine said. "He couldn't move any slower if he tried, but at least he's moving."

Kurt wasn't as optimistic, but he had to admit the past few minutes had certainly been unexpected.

"Come on," he said, pulling Blaine with their interlaced hands, "this demands coffee."

Blaine gave him a small smile and they headed to the car.

—–

They were sitting on the couch, Blaine nursing the last dregs of his coffee and Kurt trying to decide between _The Sound of Music _and _Chicago_ for their musical movie night, when the words burst from Blaine's mouth.

"I don't remember her name," he said suddenly.

Kurt was confused for all of three minutes. "Julie Andrews?" he asked curiously. Blaine shook his head with a slight lift of his lips.

"I never knew her name," he clarified. "I don't think."

_…Oh!_

Kurt straightened up, placing the movies back down on the couch and letting his attention rest entirely on the boy beside him. Blaine rested his temple on his fist, leaning against the couch arm. He wasn't looking at him; his face instead studying the sharp lines of the coffee table Kurt had dragged out in front of them.

That was okay. He didn't have to look at him.

"Did she look like Rachel?" Kurt asked cautiously. Blaine took a breath and shook his head, smiling slightly.

"She… was intensely lonely. Like Rachel," Blaine's eyes flickered up at him briefly to acknowledge. "But she didn't have the kind of outlet Rachel has—she didn't sing. She didn't have any school clubs, she just… she was just very lonely."

Kurt wanted to ask how Blaine knew this girl; if she was related to him; what had happened to her. But he kept his lips shut—hoping Blaine would eventually answer all those questions on his own. There was something familiar about the way he was speaking that tickled the back of Kurt's mind…

"It was in middle school," Blaine continued, toying with the edge of his coffee cup, "and I'd just begun to… My parents had told me to keep an eye out for anything strange that might happen to me, but it was so _faint_ sometimes, I wasn't sure if it was real. And then she passed me in the hallway."

He took a breath.

"I hadn't really noticed her before. But she passed me, and it was like…" he shrugged, and Kurt finally remembered where he'd heard that tone of voice before. It was the same this-is-nothing-serious flippancy Blaine had used when he told Kurt about Dalton. Kurt felt a ball of dread twist up in his stomach. "I _felt_ her. And I knew it was her, and not me, because she was so lonely it hurt. But we were on the way to class, so I had to go sit in Math and wait until lunch to try to talk to her, and… um…"

The twisted ball was in Kurt's throat, now. He wanted desperately to reach out and take Blaine's hand, but it was still holding the cardboard coffee cup. And meanwhile Blaine kept talking in that dismissing tone and Kurt wanted to shake him and cry _it's okay, you can be upset about this, this is serious._

"Our class was right next to the girl's bathroom," Blaine said. "And I felt it when she entered the bathroom, and I remember thinking, 'I'm not going to be able to focus on anything in class, because she's right there and she's so lonely', and… and, I don't know why she decided to do it in school, but, she, um… slit her wrists."

Kurt wanted to throw up.

"And I remember _screaming_, and everyone was looking at me, but I told them she was in the bathroom," his hand clawed around his cup before he placed it firmly on the coffee table, dropping his hand uselessly back onto the couch. Laughing nervously. "That was when my parents decided I probably shouldn't go to school anymore."

Kurt's hand was glued to his mouth, hot tears pricking his eyes. _Oh my god._

"I don't think Rachel's going to kill herself," Blaine assured, finally looking at Kurt. "She has singing, and she has your glee club, and she's strong. But she just has that…" Blaine gestured blindly in the air. "kind of _always-there _loneliness. And I just keep thinking of that girl." Blaine cringed and hid his face in his hands. "I feel really dramatic," he mumbled into them.

Kurt stared at him incredulously. "Blaine, the first time you felt a person, they _committed suicide._ I think you're allowed to be a little dramatic!"

Blaine's hands ran down the planes of his face until they slipped off. Kurt grabbed one immediately, and Blaine sent him a small, thankful smile. A question tickled the edge of his mouth, slipping out before Kurt could think about not asking it.

"What did your parents do, if they took you out of school?"

He immediately chastised himself for asking, because Blaine was normally so quiet about his parents and he didn't want to be pushy (not after that argument in the choir room today).

But Blaine kept smiling.

"They homeschooled me," he told Kurt. "Well—homeschooled as in 'they never let me out of the house again'. They were scared. I didn't understand why, back then, but now I think they might have been scared of Dalton finding out. Not that I was much help with that," he muttered the last to himself. A thousand different questions exploded behind Kurt's lips, but Kurt kept them firmly reigned. He didn't want to ruin this by being too forceful. The fact that Blaine was saying anything at all after three weeks of almost nothing was knowledge enough.

"Thank you for telling me that," he said carefully, squeezing Blaine's hand. Blaine nodded.

"You've been nothing but accommodating since I got here," he admitted softly. "The least I can do is be honest."

Kurt smiled back at him and thought, if they had been in a rom com, this was the moment they would kiss.

The moment lasted longer than Kurt thought it would, stretching out like taffy, and Kurt couldn't stop himself from glancing down at Blaine's lips. Which was inappropriate. Really, because in real life, people didn't kiss other people after the other people just admitted one of the people's friends reminded them of a girl who committed suicide. It didn't happen. So it wasn't going to happen. So he should get up and make the popcorn and _Blaine was looking at his lips._

…Oh my god.

_Oh my god, maybe they were actually going to kiss!_

Kurt's lips parted in a little in surprise, and one of them must have leaned forward or something because they were a little closer to each other than before, and just as—

A faint, muffled cry of fear pricked his ears and Blaine was suddenly standing and looking anywhere but at Kurt.

"I think I'll start the popcorn," he said, heading into the kitchen. "You go on and pick the movie," he called.

Kurt was a statue on the couch.

_What had _that_ been? _Not only had they not kissed, but… something that wasn't really a sound had invaded his eardrums. And he knew it hadn't been a sound because no one had spoken, and it had felt like—

It wasn't really like he had _heard_ anything. It was more like a feeling. A feeling that he _heard_, that he wasn't feeling because it wasn't close enough or strong enough or even _feeling _enough for it to have been a feeling… except that it was. A feeling. A feeling that wasn't a feeling.

Kurt frowned and absently reached up to touch his ears. It had felt a little bit like a headache, actually, but without the pain. Just a stifled, barely audible fear…

Had that—_had that been Blaine?_

Kurt shifted on the couch, biting his lips and feeling inexplicably spooked. The movies fell against his leg as the couch dipped, and Kurt picked them up. Right. Pick a movie. They'll watch Sound of Music, that'll be it.

His hands came up to gently touch his ears again, and he shivered.

That had never happened before.

…Had that come from _Blaine_?

"Popcorn's done!" came the voice walking out of the kitchen. "Did you pick a movie?"

Kurt nodded and wordlessly held up the appropriate DVD as Blaine set down the bowl of popcorn he was carrying.

"Cool," Blaine effused, grabbing it and popping it into the DVD player. "You know, we didn't have one of these at my house," he told Kurt as he set everything up. "Or a TV. My dad had a computer, but I wasn't allowed into his study when I was little, and after middle school I wasn't allowed to go downstairs at all, so as far as I'm concerned that doesn't count."

He sat down next to Kurt, closer than he needed to be, and Kurt reveled in the warmth he exuded. But there was still a tiny seed of panic in the back of his mind. Try as he might, Kurt couldn't hear—feel—anything coming from Blaine. _So what had that been?_

"Are you okay?" Blaine asked him.

Kurt put on a smile and focused back on the conversation. "Fine," he said airily. Blaine looked unconvinced, but thankfully let it drop. "What did you do if you didn't have movies or internet?" Kurt asked him, honestly curious (and more than a little charmed at this new, unguarded Blaine).

"Read," Blaine shrugged. "Played piano. We had a lot of books."

"No Vogue, though," Kurt pointed out, because that was something Kurt still couldn't fathom living without.

Blaine grinned. "No Vogue," he agreed.

The movie started and Blaine's attention became devoted wholly to Julie Andrews' love song about the Andes.

Kurt watched him watch the movie. He was glad Blaine had told him about that girl—even if it had been a terrifyingly sad story. It was worth it to know that Blaine trusted him enough to tell it.

Kurt smiled fondly as a look of awe passed over Blaine's face, and hid away the almost-kiss and the moment after it in a shadowed drawer in the corner of his mind. It didn't matter. Blaine and him—that mattered. Anything else that happened around them was arbitrary.


	16. And Now A Word From Our Sponsors

**A/N:** **What are all these interruptions doing in Kurt's story? Honestly. If they want to say something, they should get their own story, not hijack poor Kurt's. Anyway. Hello to all you new readers out there, I hope you're enjoying the ride so far! And to my regulars, thank you for sticking through it and trusting me with all these questions I'm not answering. They will be answered! Incredibly soon, actually. I really appreciate the wonderful comments you guys are leaving, really. You're all lovely, wonderful people. The next chapter will be up by Friday! (And enough rambling. On with the interruption!)**

* * *

><p>"<em>Who are you? What are you doing in my roo—mmph!"<em>

"_Shh! I'm a friend of Montgomery's, now follow me and be quiet!"_

"_Wes? What does h—hey, wait!_

_…_

_Where are we going?"_

"_Common area."_

"_But… the common areas are locked after curfew?"_

"_Not for you, they're not."_

.

"… _I don't know what they tell you guys about me, but I'm afraid I have a very limited array of talents. Unlocking doors is not one of them."_

"_Obviously._ **_I'll_** _be unlocking the door. You're just going to help."_

"_Help?"_

"_Yeah. Help. Now give me your hand."_

"_Why do you need my ha—**OH—mmph**_!"

.

"_Sorry if that felt a little…"_

"_Invasive?"_

"'_Weird' is what I was going to say. We'll have to do it again, though, here's another door." _

"_Do you ha–**AH**–mm! Would you stop covering my mouth like that?"_

"_You bit me! And Montgomery said you were super polite all the time!"_

"_Yes, well, I'm not at my most gracious at two in the morning!"_

"_You're gonna have to keep it down if you don't wanna be caught, smart-ass."_

.

.

"…_You can let me go now."_

"_I thought I heard something."_

"_Sure. So let me go."_

"_Calm down, princess. As soon as I figure out what that noise was."_

"_You do know touching me means I can feel you more clearly, right? Let me go."_

"_Why, am I scaring you, Anderson?"_

"_Flint. Stop bullying the package."_

"_Sorry._

…_Package has arrived, b-t-dubs."_

"_Yes, I got that."_

"_David? What's going on? Why are we–?"_

"_Sorry for scaring you, Blaine, but this is serious. Come inside and close the doors, Flint."_

_._

"_What's going on?"_

"_Wes overheard Andrew speaking with the new Head. About you."_

_._

_._

_._

"…_Andrew and Erickson were talking about me."_

"_Wes said it sounded like an intense conversation."_

"_Erickson's been giving you evil eyes all week since he took over."_

"_I'm well aware of Erickson's feelings about me, thank you, Flynn."_

"_Flint."_

"_Where is Wes now? Why couldn't he tell me this himself?"_

"_Andrew caught a glimpse of him while he was eavesdropping. Wes is afraid he's being followed."_

_._

"_Why are you telling me this? What's the point?"_

"_Wes wants you to go along with it."_

.

.

"…_sorry?"_

"_Wes wants you to go along with it."_

"_I—yes, thank you, Flip, I heard it the first time"—("Flint!")—"I'm just… David, why does Wes want me to go along with it?"_

"_Because if you do, we can finally get enough evidence on Erickson to get him kicked out of here."_

_._

"…_You don't even know what they want to do."_

"_I know we're asking a lot. You have a right to be scared. We'll be watching out for you. If it starts to get too intense, we'll intervene and get you out."_

"_It doesn't really sound like you're giving me much of a choice._

…

_(a sigh)_

…_All right. I'll do it."_

"_Thank you. And Blaine?"_

"_Yes?"_

"_**Don't tell anyone about this.**"_

_._

.

"… _Wow. I don't know why that surprised me."_

"_Maybe because you're really gullible and sheltered?"_

"_I really don't like you."_

"_Feeling's mutual."_

"_I know._

_…_

…

_Are we finished, David?"_

"_Thank you for doing this."_

"_Next time Wes sends someone to 'command' me, tell him I'd like him to be upfront about it."_

"_I'll pass that along."_

"_Thank you. Have a nice night. And you, Floyd."_

"_It's **Flint**_!

_…_

…

_He's a prissy asshole."_

"_Good to know you two get along so well."_

_._

"_Listen, David… when we unlocked those doors…"_

"…_It's addicting. I know."_

_._

"…_**Man.**"_

"_I know."_

"_No wonder Andrew's obsessed with him."_

"_We have to make sure things don't go too far. I know we need to get to Erickson, but Wes has never done anything with Blaine before. He doesn't know how easily things can spiral out of control."_

"_So, both eyes on the package, then."_

"_Be careful. Yes."_

_._

_._

"…_This is going to be something crazy, isn't it?"_

.

"_Tell Jeff to watch him tomorrow. Wes says we should take shifts."_


	17. Just Like The Ones I Used To Know

**A Note about the Interruptions:** Quite a few of you have asked me why I write the Interruption chapters the way I do, and I thought that was a very good question, so I figured I'd post the answer in an author's note here (be prepared for a long and boring story).

So, I'm a big science fiction fan, and when I was younger my dad gave me a book that really changed my understanding of what a novel could do: Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card. Throughout the book, there are several mysterious conversations held between two mysterious people, with only dialogue and space to indicate what was going on-no indicators or tags to tell you who was speaking or how they spoke. At the end of the book, you find out who was talking and realize what they were actually talking about, and I loved that I could go back and reread those sections and have a whole new understanding of what was happening in the story. Even more, I loved that Card had developed a way to keep a reader _completely _in the dark; we have no idea what these people look like or what's really going on until Ender meets them and we recognize their names. All we have is the equivalent of a black screen and some voice over (but even less than we'd be given with a film or a tv show, because we don't even know what their voices sound like).

I modeled the Interruptions after this because I wanted the glimpses into Blaine's past to be equally murky and confusing (and hopefully, later, enlightening). There's a ton of information and clues imparted in each interruption, but we're plopped right in the middle of each scene, without any prose to explain what we missed, and so it's hard to figure out what is going on exactly-which lets Kurt's slow discovery of _what really happened_ to Blaine at Dalton just as enlightening to us as it is to Kurt, while still allowing me to slip in a little occasional reminder that _what really happened_ to Blaine at Dalton is a very important part of the story, even though right now we're focused on the present and on how Blaine is affecting Kurt's life right now.

FFnet doesn't let me use empty paragraph spaces for some reason, so I've had to fill in the pauses with little ellipses (sadly; I think they make those chapters a little more confusing than they would be had I used only spaces). I've tried to reformat them a little, so if you want to go back and reread them [try and find some of those clues ;)] hopefully they'll be _slightly_ more coherent!

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><p><strong>AN: All this sexual tension is starting to drain on my sanity! Kurt, Blaine, kiss already! This chapter has an inordinate amount of fluff in it, so proceed with caution. Thank you so much, again, for those lovely comments last chapter–they really keep me going, and force me to write much faster than if I were just writing this for myself.  
><strong>

**P.S., I just found out that one of my favorite artists, _muchacha11_, reads this fic. I pretty much freaked out. Wow wow wow. I feel like she's such a staple in the Klaine community, and I'm so honored she's enjoying this fic so far! Thank you all for reading and letting me share this story with you!**

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><p>"What's going on with you and Blaine?"<p>

"What do you mean?" Kurt asked. Or rather, he would have asked that, if he hadn't looked up first and instead let tumble out: "Dear god, take that flannel off before I set it on fire."

Finn blinked rapidly before taking off the bright yellow long sleeve, standing awkwardly in his olive t-shirt (and Kurt sincerely hoped Carole wasn't the one responsible for teaching this boy the color wheel, because he was going to have a very stern talking-to with the person who was). After a moment of contemplation, Finn balled up the shirt in his hands and threw the flannel out the door. That done, he moved to sit down on Kurt's bed.

"You and Blaine," he stated in his no-nonsense voice. "Spill it."

Kurt glanced back down at his assignment for _Jane Eyre _before reluctantly placing his bookmark and shutting the tome. "What about me and Blaine?" Kurt asked imperiously, sitting up.

Finn looked at him expectantly. "You guys are always hanging out together," he said. "I don't think I've seen you apart since I found him on our couch that one morning. I mean. Except now."

Kurt frowned. Well, that wasn't true.

…Was it?

After all, Kurt had to go to school. And Blaine spent time in the shop with Dad sometimes, and played videogames with Finn and Puck, or sometimes had inexplicably long conversations with Rachel Berry on Kurt's cell phone (Blaine hadn't explained that one to Kurt yet, and Kurt wasn't sure he wanted to know) and… And okay, so ever since the day he'd told Kurt about that girl, Blaine had started hanging out with Kurt during Kurt's free period, and he was always there waiting for them in the choir room, and, sure, they went to the Lima Bean after class, or explored the outer areas of the town together over the weekend, and Kurt had taken it upon himself to educate Blaine on all of the mindless entertainment he had missed out on during his formative years_…_ but it wasn't like they were _always_ together.

…Right?

Except that maybe they were. He and Blaine were in different rooms of the house right now, and for some reason Kurt's room felt empty without Blaine there. Kurt couldn't remember the last time he'd done something without asking Blaine if he wanted to join in. The only reason they were apart right now was because Blaine had some big surprise in mind and was downstairs preparing it in secret. He'd been adamant that Kurt remain upstairs and unspoiled until whatever he was doing was ready. (His secrets were rather poorly kept, though, because Carole had let slip to Kurt that she was helping Blaine with dinner tonight. After four weeks of watching carefully as Kurt made heart-healthy meals for the family, Blaine had apparently decided he'd wanted to try his hand at cooking something as a surprise for Kurt. Kurt smiled at the thought—because really, what could be more adorable?)

"Dude," Finn crossed his arms, "you're not getting away with the silent treatment. Talk."

Kurt blinked rapidly to refocus and looked at Finn. "I don't know what you want me to say," he shrugged. "We're friends."

"You _sure_?" Finn raised his eyebrows. Kurt tilted his head.

"Yes," he said slowly, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. "Why?"

"_Puck and I_ are friends," Finn stated. "We don't hang out as much as you and Blaine do—even when Puck used to stay at my house." Kurt fidgeted with the edges of Charlotte Bronte's novel, taking this in. "Blaine is like, always with you. And Mercedes was telling Quinn in the choir room the other day that she never sees you outside of glee club. Maybe you guys started off as friends, but for the past week it's like you and Blaine have become correspondent on each other."

"Codependent," Kurt corrected, a slow smile tugging his lips.

"Yeah, that," Finn nodded. "So, bro talk time. What's up with you two?"

Kurt's fingers came up to toy with the edges of his lips, feeling the curve in them. So it wasn't just his imagination, then. There _was_ something happening between him and Blaine.

"Are you guys dating?" Finn asked, apparently impatient with Kurt's thoughtful silence. "I mean, is he gay? Do you like him?"

"No," Kurt's fingers dropped from his mouth. Finn looked confused. "No, we're not dating," Kurt clarified. Then, thinking of the whole debacle with Sam earlier this year, added defiantly: "Yes, he's gay."

Finn looked at him pointedly. "Okay, so do you like him?" he pressed. "I mean, he's kind of got that cute old school thing going on, right? That's kind of your type." Finn adjusted himself on the bed to be more comfortable, and Kurt was struck dumb at the motion.

_Wait, hold on._

Finn was trying to talk with him about his love life. Finn was legitimately _interested _in his love life.

"…Guys can be cute, right? Or is it like, they're just handsome? Do you even have a type? I don't really have a type, but I know some guys do."

Kurt stared as Finn continued his awkward rambling. "Why do you want to know?" he interrupted warily. "Why do you care all of a sudden?"

Finn blinked at him.

"I'm curious," he shrugged. "And we're brothers now, and … I don't know, you've just been really happy lately. Have you noticed we haven't fought _once_ in the past two weeks?" Kurt hadn't noticed, actually. "We used to fight all the time before Blaine came along. And I know that I was kind of a dick with the whole Sam thing this year, but… I just want you to know that I support you. I'm here for you, as your bro… and besides, Blaine's a good guy."

Kurt studied him, measuring his sincerity. A ball of warm tears rose up inside his chest, and he placed a hand against his skin to feel it. "…Thank you," he said quietly.

Finn smiled. "Don't need to thank me, man. It's part of being a good brother." Kurt smiled, blinking away the wetness in his eyes. Finn gave him a moment. Then: "So… do you like him?"

A snort of laughter escaped Kurt, and he collapsed sideways onto the bed, hiding his face in his pillow.

"_YesIlikehim_," he mumbled into the fabric, face heating up. His shoulders drew up around his ears in a feeble attempt to protect the words inside the cocoon of his body.

"…Dude, totally didn't get that."

"I like him!"

"Oh! Good!" Finn bounced on the mattress once for emphasis. "You won't be awkward with him, then."

Kurt's forehead crinkled and he brought his head up. "What do you mean?"

Finn looked at him like he had grown a second head. "You mean you haven't noticed?"

An impossible hope climbed up the walls of Kurt's ribs. "Noticed what?" he asked breathlessly.

Finn opened his mouth to answer and—

Just Kurt's luck, the subject of their conversation appeared in the doorway.

"It's ready!" Blaine exclaimed, a broad grin on his face. His enthusiasm was infectious, and Kurt found his smile mimicking it. Carole must have been in a good mood during the cooking, which meant Blaine couldn't have screwed it up _too _badly. Blaine gave an incredibly ridiculous and yet somehow charmingly smooth bow, gesturing for the two boys on the bed to exit the room. "Dinner is served," he said proudly.

"Cool!" Finn jumped up, heading out the door. He glanced at Blaine before looking back at Kurt with a significant look. "I'll just leave you two alone," he said pointedly, grinning, as he left the room. Kurt groaned, and his embarrassment once more found refuge in his pillow.

"What was that?" Blaine radiated amused confusion. Kurt mumbled something into his pillow that could have been an explanation _(he wasn't sure), _his words slurring with a groan. Blaine chuckled by the door, and Kurt sat back up to look at him.

"I'm guessing due to your suspicious lack of appropriate shock that Carole told you my cunning plan for the evening," Blaine said, sounding slightly disappointed. Kurt sent him an apologetic smile.

"Secrets don't last long in this house," he said. Then he realized who he was talking to. Blaine gave him a knowing grin, and Kurt snorted. "Well, most secrets," he amended. Blaine mimed tipping a hat and clicked his tongue before letting his smile settle more comfortably on his lips. "What did you make?" Kurt asked him curiously. He straightened from his casual lean against the door, holding out a hand for Kurt.

"Oh no you don't. I'm determined to keep _some_ of the surprise. You'll have to come down and see."

Kurt got up off the bed and grabbed Blaine's hand. They're fingers interlaced, and Blaine led him downstairs to the dining room, his happiness bleeding out of his palms. As had been happening more and more frequently this week, Kurt felt a buzzing start up in his head. He squeezed Blaine's hand slightly in response to see if it would clear itself up a little, like it had this past Thursday in the choir room, but it remained muffled.

Kurt knew the strange sound had something to do with the boy in front of him; it only happened when he was around Blaine. Occasionally, the buzzing would turn into an emotion—fear was the most common, although there was also happiness, anticipation, worry—and at those moments, it was like someone had drilled a hole into Blaine's head and let Kurt place his ear against it to try to discover what was inside. It was a tiny hole, more like a pinprick, and anything he heard-felt (because he still couldn't describe what it was) was faint or stifled in some way. But Kurt knew it was Blaine. There was something inherently—_Blaine—_about the sound-feelings.

They arrived in the dining room just as Kurt's dad did.

"And… voila!" Blaine extended his hand in a broad, sweeping gesture that encompassed the table in front of them. Kurt looked closer at the dish, and a bubble of delight tickled his throat.

"Is that…?"

"Vegetarian lasagna," Blaine bumped shoulders playfully. "A certain somebody's favorite dish, if I'm remembering correctly."

Kurt couldn't stop his grin. "Look at you, going all Paula Dean on me!" He nudged Blaine's elbow. "We'll have to get you a job on the Food Network."

"I would be honored to share my cooking expertise with my adoring public," Blaine said with affect. He pulled out Kurt's chair for him, and Kurt graciously sat down. "But save the good reviews for later. Like after you actually taste it."

Kurt laughed and Blaine reached over to serve him a carefully-cut slice of lasagna, the heat from his body warming Kurt's back.

Carole came in from the kitchen with a bowl of salad, setting it next to the plate of sliced bread on the table.

"Looks great!" Finn exclaimed, coming out of the kitchen with a drink pitcher.

"You've really gone all out here, kid," Kurt's dad said, sounding impressed. Blaine smiled one of those adorably embarrassed smiles Kurt had begun to adore.

"Carole helped with a lot of it," he deflected.

"Oh, don't be coy, it was mostly this boy here," Carole grinned, side-hugging Blaine. He let out a surprised laugh.

"It was the least I could do," he protested. "With everything you guys have done for me…"—Blaine looked over at Kurt and it was like he was speaking only to him—"really, I don't know how to thank you," he finished softly. Kurt felt his cheeks heat.

"Well, you've been a joy to have," Carole smiled at him as she sat down. Blaine finished serving everyone the lasagna and took his seat next to Kurt.

"What Carole said," Burt nodded. "You're welcome here until you decide you don't want to stay."

Kurt's smile stretched wide across his face as Blaine looked at Burt in surprise. "Thank you," Blaine said, eyes shining and earnest. Kurt crept his fingers surreptitiously around Blaine's, and Blaine squeezed them gently.

"Hopefully we won't change our mind after we get a taste of this," he joked, triumphantly getting another laugh out of Blaine.

"Oh no," he cried, "If I'd known my future was reliant on my cooking, I would have had you do all the work for me!"

"Dude, don't worry," Finn said as he brought up a forkful of lasagna. "If mom's given you the seal of approval, you're good to go. We all know who's really in charge of the house here."

That comment led to a blushing Burt Hummel and a table full of laughter, which led to Carole and Burt talking about a particular date they'd been on, which led to Blaine asking the story of how they met, which led to an uproarious clamor as each person tried to tell their version of events. All of which inevitably led to a blushing Kurt Hummel and a table full of laughter.

In the grand scheme of family dinners, Kurt decided, covering his rose-red cheeks with his hands, the night was one of the warmest they'd had in a while. He glanced around the table, at faces that had been stressed, tense, and edgy only last month—now glowing with contentment. Finn, Carole, his dad. Blaine. For the first time since the prospect of the new marriage, Kurt felt like he was part of a family.

His family.

His heart felt swollen inside his chest, and he tightened his hold on Blaine's fingers as tears pricked his eyes. He knew Blaine wasn't doing anything to affect the mood of the room, but he was also positive that this moment had something magical about it. It couldn't have been a coincidence that the minute Blaine had appeared, things had started to change for the better. This boy, who had just barged into his life in the middle of the night, had healed bruises Kurt hadn't even known he'd carried.

Blaine turned to look at him, curious, and Kurt gave him a watery smile. _Thank you_, he mouthed.

A rush of comfort warmed up his hand from Blaine's fingers, and a sound that felt like gratitude tickled his brain.

"If I'd known my cooking was that bad, I would have ordered in," Blaine leaned in to whisper in his ear. A laugh fizzed up Kurt's throat and he let it spill into the room.

Yes, this was definitely one of the best Friday night dinners they'd had in a while.

—-

They'd decided to watch _Holiday Inn,_ because it was only five days until Christmas Break (seven until Christmas proper) and Finn had wanted something seasonally-appropriate to start off the weekend. While Kurt wasn't half as excited about little baby Jesus' fake pagan birthday as Finn was, he was loathe to ruin the mood dinner had set, and so had readily agreed to a little Fred Astaire and Bing Crosby (Finn was apparently up to compromising too, because he didn't even protest the oldness of the movie when Kurt picked it). The three of them sat snugly on the couch together while Carole and his dad shared the lazyboy chair. The adults only stayed for a few minutes before going upstairs, but Kurt liked the feeling of unity their presence had granted during the time they were there.

And he certainly wasn't complaining about the lack of space on the couch. Blaine's right thigh and arm were pressed flush against his own because of it, and Kurt's heart was beating in sixteenths.

"_I'll capture your heart singing_," Bing Crosby crooned.

Blaine's lips hovered near his ear. "I'd absolutely go for Fred Astaire," he whispered. "Just look at him move. He's obviously the cuter one."

Kurt shivered as Blaine's breath brushed his neck. "She has no chance with either one of them," he responded, all breath. "They're about to go offstage and do some 'dancing' together. I think we all know what that means. Honestly, these movies are so gay I'm surprised it's taken this long for the general public to catch on."

Sure enough, Bing and Fred danced offstage together within the next two minutes, causing Blaine to crack up loudly next to Kurt's ear. Finn shot them a weird look before turning back to the movie, and Kurt and Blaine traded guilty smiles.

"That was your fault," Blaine accused softly.

"Please," Kurt scoffed. "You're the one who can't control his urges." Blaine snickered in his ear. His left hand came to rest gently on Kurt's arm, fingers drawing little patterns in his skin (_speaking of not controlling his urges). _Kurt couldn't focus on anything but their gentle teasing.

"This is nice," Blaine murmured contentedly. "My family never really did things like this."

"Family movie nights?" Kurt dragged out of his mouth.

"Family movie nights, family dinners… we did things together, and they cared about me. I felt it. But they were always so frightened. It never felt like this."

Kurt hummed, trying to get himself to focus on the words coming out of Blaine's mouth and not the tingling accompanying Blaine's wandering fingers. His eyes slipped briefly closed as Blaine burrowed closer.

"This house is so full of love," he whispered like a secret, lips brushing lightly against Kurt's ear. "Sometimes I feel like I'm drunk on it."

At some point (because Kurt certainly wasn't watching the movie anymore), Blaine's head came to rest on Kurt's shoulder. Kurt glanced down to see his eyes were closed—or at least heavily-lidded (it was hard to tell from his angle). The fingers continued their soft patterning of the skin of Kurt's forearm. It would have been amazingly perfect… had Finn not been intent on shooting Kurt numerous knowing looks throughout the movie. Kurt tried to avoid catching Finn's gaze and stared intently at the TV screen, focusing on the comfortable weight of Blaine's body; the relaxed, lazy cursive Blaine's fingers traced into his arm.

It was around the time Crosby started singing "Be Careful, It's My Heart" that Finn got up off the couch.

"Think I'm going to go to bed, man," he said, very obvious faking a yawn. "You two enjoy the rest of the movie!" He gave Kurt a ridiculously large wink and a not-as-subtle-as-he-thought-it-was thumbs-up before trotting happily upstairs.

Kurt wanted to shout out in triumph.

Finn was the best step-brother in the history of step-brothers. Brody Jenner didn't hold a _candle_ to Finn. Elvis _wished _he had stepbrothers like him. Kurt was going to buy him piles and _piles_ of neon-orange clothing for this.

He relaxed against the couch as the movie played on, content to cuddle into Blaine's soothing warmth. Now that they were alone, he didn't feel nearly as self-conscious, and he let Blaine's tingling fingers lull him into a delicate chrysalis of clandestine sweetness.

He didn't know when it happened, but eventually he must have fallen asleep… because the next thing he knew he was waking up very suddenly to a repeating menu screen glowing dimly into the dark black of the room, Blaine a comforting and solid weight against him.

He glanced around, looking for whatever it was that had woken him up—before he heard it. A slightly muffled feeling humming in his ears. He shifted closer to Blaine (_was he awake or asleep?), _but it didn't clear up_. _

Blaine looked up at him (_awake, then_), hazel eyes peeking out from under dark lashes, shimmering in the light of the TV. Fingers once more picking up their tracing on his skin.

Mouth parted slightly… only one bold move away from Kurt's own.

_Maybe now…_

Kurt felt rather than heard the hitch in Blaine's breath. His fingers dug into Kurt's arm slightly, pressing harder into the patterns he was drawing in his flesh, his eyelids falling shut as his head tilted up and Kurt didn't breathe—

That _fear_ again, this time _loud _in its contained cage_, _a stifled scream in his head and a gasp falling upon his ears as Blaine tore himself away, seizing the remote control and turning off the TV before Kurt could see his face. Kurt reeled from the sudden change in mood.

"What–?" he started, but Blaine interrupted him.

"It's late, you should probably get up to bed."

His words were terse, controlled. Kurt stared, lost as to what to do, how to proceed. That had definitely been another moment. They had been about to kiss, _again_, and Blaine had pulled away. _Again. _Was it Kurt, was he pushing things too fast? But no, that couldn't be: _Blaine _had been the one about to kiss him in the first place!

This wasn't fair. It didn't make sense. It wasn't _fair_! Things had been going so wonderfully and now…

What was going _on?_

"Blaine," he reached for Blaine's hand, eyes trying to adjust to the dark of the room, but Blaine quickly moved it away from his grasp. It was like a punch to his stomach. The glimpse he'd somehow been granted into Blaine's mind was vacillating between a rising panic and a white noise, and Kurt _didn't understand._

_What are you so scared of?_

He stared hard through the dark, trying to make out Blaine's face, to find Blaine's eyes, but he couldn't. He wanted to cry, or scream, or shake the boy in front of him and make him tell him what was wrong. They had been so open with each other this past week, and this felt too much like Blaine was shutting him out, like he was hiding things again. This _wasn't fair_.

"Goodnight," Blaine said purposely.

Kurt swallowed against an encroaching rush of righteous tears.

_…Fine_.

He stood up gracefully, walking across the room with his chin high and his back straight.

"Sleep well," came Blaine's quiet voice, but Kurt didn't bother to respond.

Two could play at this game. If Blaine wanted to shut him out, then Kurt would shut Blaine out. He'd done it before. He could do it now.

He was up in his room when he heard it again: fear, still rising. His heart stuttered. This was the first time he'd heard something from Blaine when Blaine wasn't right next to him. Kurt shivered, climbing quickly into his bed and foregoing his usual skin routine. He needed this day to be over. He needed to just re-do this day over. Or let it be tomorrow already. _Please._

Muffled but mutedly persistent in his head, Blaine's growing fear lulled Kurt into an uneasy sleep.


	18. That's Not My Watch You're Holding

**Chapter Summary: Kurt and Blaine try to avoid each other, Kurt and Mercedes finally talk, and Kurt finally discovers what's got Blaine so scared of kissing him.**

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><p><strong>AN:** Oh my word. I just. Just. _These boys_. Now I see why Glee always ends up writing sad Kurt story lines. Goodness me. This is a very long Part B–the longest chapter of this fic by far.** Warning for this chapter: Remember when I told you this story was going to get intense? This is where it starts. This chapter contains copious amounts of tears and complicated boy-problems, but stick through it. I promise it won't send you into a depression.** I hope this doesn't scare people away. Any feedback is highly welcome feedback. To paraphrase a favorite author of mine, most people judge a story here on FFnet based on the amount of reviews it's received. **If you like this story, don't keep it to yourself; comment and tell me so!** I do take your opinions into account when I'm writing these chapters. I write this story ultimately for your enjoyment, after all! Read away, and I hope you enjoy!

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><p>Kurt sat on his bed, reading Jane Eyre and studiously ignoring any and all thoughts that had to do with the boy downstairs. All night last night, Blaine's rising panic had crashed like waves inside his head, ebbing away for long periods of time just to swell again a few minutes later. The concentration of it woke him up several times during the night, until it finally settled to a loud white noise (which had been almost soothing at three a.m. in the morning and was now utterly distracting at 11:30 in the afternoon, making it nigh impossible for him to focus on anything). Finn had begun working in the shop with Kurt's dad on the weekends, and so he, Carole, and Kurt's dad had by now all left for work—leaving Kurt alone in the house with Blaine all day. Or rather, as was actually the case: leaving Kurt and Blaine alone to avoid each other all day.<p>

Kurt had no idea what to think about what was going on with Blaine anymore. He was angry, and upset, and confused. But, even though they had only been apart for less than twelve hours… he _missed_ Blaine. With a strength that surprised him when he discovered it.

He traced his arm again absently as he turned to the next page. While he was taking a shower this morning, he had found a strange inscription sewn into white of his arm, a spindly cursive of a language that perfectly aligned along one of his veins. Blaine must have put it there, last night, when he was tracing patterns into his arm. Kurt had stared at it for what felt like hours, using up all the hot water as he let the spray pound away at the sudden, powerful flood of—_hunger, desire, arousal—_and the twinge of unease that rose up inside of him at the sight of the line of magic inside his skin. He had no idea what it said—but there was something almost empowering, almost possessive about the look of the language; the placement of the script as it moved down his skin and curled around his pulse.

Kurt caught himself and cleared his throat, trying to focus back on Jane Eyre.

He was just reaching the part where Jane heard a creepy moaning coming from a room upstairs when it happened—the untuned radio station that was Blaine inside his head suddenly cut off.

Kurt froze.

He listened intently, trying to focus, or clear his mind, or bend a spoon, but, distressingly, he couldn't hear anything. It was like someone had pressed the mute button, or cut the line in the middle of a phone conversation. Kurt snapped the book shut and sat up, trying harder.

Nothing.

Kurt thought of the time he came home to an empty house, and of a boy who had pressed Blaine up against the bark of the tree in the backyard.

Determining Blaine's health and safety were above his own pride, Kurt quickly got out of bed, speeding down the stairs. He just wanted to check on him. He didn't have to open up or forgive him or anything like that, he just needed to check on him.

"Blaine?" he called out, trying to stay calm. He hurried into the living room, frowning at the empty couch. "Blaine?" he called again, voice rising. No answer. His eyes flew around the room and he moved to the glass door leading into the backyard, spotting movement. Kurt let out a huge sigh.

Of course. Of _course_ he'd be outside in the middle of December, that closed off, secretive idiot.

Carefully, Kurt opened the door and stepped out, shivering immediately at the frozen ground against his bare feet. As he moved closer, he noticed a foot peeking out from behind the trunk of the tree he'd found Blaine under all those weeks ago. Annoyed and now freezing, he came around the trunk, hopping slightly from foot to foot in the vain hope he could prevent his toes freezing off _(shoes, Hummel: they exist for a reason)_.

A cold hand fell upon his bare feet, dropping with the kind of heavy sluggishness that graced the turning off of an alarm clock. Warmth tingled up his body, and Kurt looked down to find the hand attached to the boy he was looking for. Blaine was staring deeply into the circle of trees that edged the backyard, a slight frown drawing down his eyebrows.

Kurt looked at him for a second (careful to keep his expression stony), trying to hear him. Blaine's clothes were disheveled, eyes tired—a coat was draped around his shoulders like a cloak, but he wasn't holding it closed. He sat slumped against the bark, immobile.

…And still nothing. Mute.

"What are you doing out here?" Kurt asked, frowning. Blaine didn't answer. He crouched down, reaching out to take Blaine's hand—and Blaine jerked it away.

Kurt's eyes stung with hurt, even as his stomach flipped at the brief but icy touch of Blaine's skin.

"Blaine, you're freezing," Kurt snapped. Blaine looked down at himself in mild surprise.

"Oh," he said softly. "I wasn't sure if that was me."

He sounded strange—distant—and Kurt's heart started making a slow journey up his throat.

"What's wrong?" it came out harsher than he intended. Blaine shook his head.

"Building walls," he said bluntly, still sounding only half-there. It took Kurt a few seconds to translate what he meant.

Oh.

He was building up his mental walls. That must have been why Kurt didn't hear anything anymore; if Blaine was shutting his mind away from the world, then—

Wait. Why was he doing this _now?_ Was he actually, literally closing his mind off from Kurt? Kurt almost couldn't speak for the constricting of his throat.

"Is this because of last night?" he asked around the beating in his esophagus, feeling too small and too young. "Did I do something to make you angry, or… did I do something wrong?"

Blaine didn't look at him, the frown remaining ever-present on his face. "No," he said, standing up and tugging his coat close around his shoulders. "I'm not angry with you. You didn't…" Blaine trailed off, squeezing his eyes shut. He started to move back inside. Without waiting to make sure Kurt was following him. Kurt swallowed thickly, trying to stop his throat from closing, and hurried to catch up.

"Then what–?"

"Maybe you should call one of your friends today, visit them," Blaine interrupted. Kurt couldn't believe what was coming out of his mouth. "Get out of the house for a bit."

Kurt stared, almost in amazement at the audacity. Had Blaine just seriously asked him to get out of his own house?

"Are you _serious_?" he heard himself asking, voice sharp. Blaine still had yet to look at him.

"I'm sorry," he said lowly, annoyance biting his voice. "I'm not—I just think you should spend some time with someone other than me for more than _five minutes_."

"Are you insinuating I'm being _too clingy_? Me?" An ugly scoff came out of Kurt's mouth, even as he dammed tightly against the tears fighting to escape his eyes. "Because, if I'm remembering correctly, _I'm_ not the one who's been coming to school every day just to spend every possibly minute of my free period with me! I'm not the one who's always waiting for me in the choir room before glee practice, or who—!"

"No, but you_ sure look forward _to it_, _don't you?"

Blaine's words cut into him like a whip as he finally turned to face Kurt, and hazel eyes burned into blue with feverish, painful intensity. The shock of it stole Kurt's breath, broke his dams—and water finally, silently spilled out his eyes from the sting. He opened his mouth—to say something, to protest, to—do _something_—but he couldn't find his voice.

That…

_That insinuation had been all too clear._

Blaine's hands came up to cover his face, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Kurt, just… _time_. Just, for today, just please go somewhere else and give me some time, _please_." Blaine's voice was so strained it cracked, and Kurt noticed, oddly disconnected, that he was crying, too. "I—Mercedes is angry at you, you should make things right with her. You should—I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_, I—just, please, I'm sorry, just—_please_."

He couldn't speak. Or even close his mouth. He just walked, lost, away from Blaine; over to the sliding glass door; inside the house. Over to the front entrance, putting on a pair of sneakers and grabbing his coat; grabbing his keys; opening the door and walking outside. Closing the door. Unlocking his car and climbing inside. Shutting the car door.

Oh god.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

Had he been making up everything in his head? Had Blaine been… had everything that was going right with them, between them, all that time spent together, had that been Blaine at _all_? Had it all been happening just because _Kurt wanted it to?_

He wanted to throw up.

No, this wasn't fair. Blaine couldn't just say something like that, not when it changed _everything_, when it _ruined everything_. Kurt stabbed the keys into the ignition and twisted the car to life with a swift jerk. Shaking, he shifted gears, speeding down his driveway backwards, shifting once more and taking off down the street. He couldn't, he couldn't be near Blaine right now, he didn't _want _to be near Blaine right now. Oh god, he was going to throw up, he was going to cry, he was going to—he didn't even know where he was going, just _out_, just _away from the house_, he had been ignoring everyone except Blaine but maybe he had even been ignoring _Blaine_ in the end and _he couldn't just say things like that oh god he couldn't he couldn't he was just saying that he was just angry and scared and he was just saying that._

He had no idea what went through Mercedes' head as she opened the door only to be greeted by an armful of sobbing Kurt. But whatever it was, he was thankful for it—because she immediately wrapped her arms around him and ushered him up to her room, silently letting him cry on her shoulder for ten whole minutes before she opened her mouth to ask him what happened.

Kurt hadn't meant to tell her everything. But somehow, as she asked more and more clarifying questions, it just spilled out—everything. And it was such a _relief_, to tell someone else, even as Mercedes started looking at him with increasingly more skeptic features.

"Lemme get this straight," she stated, standing with a hand on her hip and a pitying look in her eyes that spelled out more than her words did how much she believed him. "You think Blaine's magical."

"No, he's _magic_," Kurt corrected with irritation.

"Right. Sorry," she said with a little attitude-filled flip of her head. "He's 'magic'. And he's only hanging out with you because you _want _him to hang out with you, and not because he wants in your pants. Because… you can _control_ what he does."

"Okay," Kurt threw up his hands, frustrated and ready to give up and cry again. "You know what? Forget I ever told you, because—" and then he suddenly remembered his arm.

Hurriedly, he yanked down his sleeve, holding up his forearm to the light. "Proof!" he exclaimed, triumphant as Mercedes' expression changed. The strange script glinted weirdly in the sunlight. "How do you think I could have gotten that? It's not a tattoo, and I couldn't have _sewn_ it into my arm. I don't even know what the thing _means_. _Blaine _did it to me."

Mercedes looked disturbed and more than a little nervous. "That—that came from Blaine?" she asked, face paling. Kurt nodded. "You're not making this up?" she accused him. "This isn't some stupid practical joke you and Blaine planned, is it?"

"Mercedes—do you honestly believe I'd do that to you?"

"I don't know _what_ to believe anymore," she snapped back at him. "I _used_ to believe we were best friends who'd be friends forever, but _that _ended up being totally wrong."

Kurt felt shame heat his cheeks, and he let his sleeve fall down.

"I'm sorry," he said to her. "I didn't mean to make you feel like I forgot about you. I kept meaning to get together with you, or call you, or text, and then we hadn't spoken for so long…"

Mercedes studied him with angry eyes.

"…I know," she admitted reluctantly. "That doesn't mean I forgive you. But… I should have tried to call you when you stopped trying. I guess it's on me, too."

"I just got a little carried away," Kurt's voice was quiet in confession. "He's just so amazing and I—"

"And you're in love with him," she finished for him. He opened his mouth to contradict her, but she held up a hand, full-on angry diva. "Now don't you go denying it, white boy. Every single person in glee club knows your lovesick puppy faces. Need I bring up painful memories about a certain step-brother of yours?"

Kurt gasped. "We agreed we would never talk about that!" he cried, betrayed.

"Yeah, well, we _also _agreed we wouldn't keep secrets from each other, and look how that turned out." Mercedes' softened eyes took some of the bite away. "…It feels like we were never not talking in the first place," she commented, sounding so young all of a sudden.

Kurt smiled at her softly. "I guess that's what happens when you're as compatible a gay and a hag as we are."

Mercedes sat next to him on the bed. "I should apologize too," she said hesitantly. "For not noticing Karofsky was bullying you so bad—even though you should have _told_ me," she said this last with a stern look. "I'm glad you had Blaine there to help you out."

Kurt wasn't quite ready to forgive her that, either—after all, she had been his best and only close friend at the time, and she should have noticed—but… he was willing to work on it, if she was willing.

(And, okay, so Kurt hadn't told her _everything_. Karofsky's secret wasn't his to tell.)

Mercedes stared at his arm.

"Go ahead," Kurt held it out to her. She took it carefully, pushing up his sleeve and feeling the line of script with a dazed look on her face.

When she finally let go, she sighed heavily next to him.

"Blaine is magic," she said suddenly. Kurt looked at her and nodded, patting her on the knee.

"Blaine is magic," he agreed. He thought about the first time he'd found out, when he'd almost begged Blaine to show him what the boy had been doing to him up against the tree, and Blaine had… _he had almost done it_, Kurt realized with growing horror. He wondered if it was just that Blaine _couldn't _do it—that he didn't know how—that had stopped him from following through on the feelings Kurt had forced him to imitate that night. Because if everything that was happening between them was because Kurt had been so focused on what he wanted that he was forcing his feelings upon him…

_'With you… It's different with you.' _

He bit his lip as an encroaching upsurge of tears suddenly pressed up against his throat. "I just think—" he began, voice wavering, before succumbing to another flood of sobs. Mercedes let out a cry of dismay and wrapped her arms around him. "I just think if I had known, if I'd just known, then he wouldn't have had to—then he wouldn't have—oh god, 'Cedes, what if he's been _hating_ me all this time, and he was forced to hide it because I was so—!"

Mercedes let him cry for a few more minutes before speaking.

"Boo, I don't know what's up about this magic thing. But I do know one thing. And I really can't believe you haven't noticed it."

Kurt swallowed a thick sob. Finn had said the exact same words to him yesterday.

He sniffed, straightening up and wiping his eyes. "Oh, and what's that?" he asked, voice clogged. "I'm the most oblivious person on the face of the planet?"

Mercedes hit him upside the head lightly. "_Yeah_, actually," she sassed. "You know why? Because that boy is _head over heels _for you, and you've done nothing about it for three weeks."

…

Kurt was pretty sure his hearing had gone.

"…Sorry, what?" he said blankly.

"I've _seen_ how he looks at you. Hell, _everybody's_ seen how he looks at you, Kurt. That's not the face of a boy who's being forced into something."

"How do you know?" he couldn't help but argue. "He feels what I feel, so how–?"

"Yeah, but he has his own feelings to feel along with feeling yours, right? Didn't you say you knew he didn't want to do whatever it is you wanted him to do that first time? He was still feeling what you were feeling then, and you could tell which feelings were you and which were him."

"I—yeah, I guess," Kurt began doubtfully.

"So, even _with _you being completely blind to everything else that's happening around you when you have a crush, you don't think you'd be able to tell he was struggling against doing something he didn't want to do? You don't think _we'd_ be able to tell? He's like attached to you at the hip in the choir room, babe. You're Jada Pinkett and he's Will Smith."

Kurt felt like a weight had been taken off his chest. That… made _so much sense_ he wanted to hit himself for not thinking about it. "Wait," he said before he let himself get carried away. "But he's the one that put the idea in my head in the first place. Why would he do that if it wasn't true?"

Mercedes bit her lip.

"I don't know what's going on with him," she said slowly. "Maybe he's just being a stupid boy. But I think he was right—give him some space. Maybe he needs some time to figure it out on his own." Kurt took the tissue she offered him, considering her words. "Okay, so, you need to give your man some space" –("he's not my man, 'Cedes.")—"and you know what that means, don't you?" Mercedes nudged. Kurt looked at her blankly.

"What?"

"Mall time!" She slapped his shoulder. "Nothing cheers you up more than shopping. And we need to get our winter wardrobes up to date!"

Kurt grinned for what felt like the first time in ages.

—-

Hours and several scarves later, he realized the irony as he made his way home from Mercedes' house. They had spent most of the afternoon shopping, reasserting their friendship. They even grabbed lunch at the food court and ended up spending it discussing two boys a few tables away from them (an African-American Kurt thought needed his wardrobe dissected and an Asian Mercedes had found cute)—just like they'd used to when they were inseparable last year. By 5:30, he was feeling markedly happier than he was when he'd left the house—and that was when he remembered that it had been _Blaine's_ suggestion to make up with Mercedes in the first place.

The discovery allowed a kind of sad content to settle over his shoulders as he drove home, pulling up the driveway and parking in the space next to the garage. At least he could take comfort in the fact that Blaine knew him so well. That had to mean something, right?

The sun was already starting to set, all golden purple and blushed rose as Kurt got out of his car. He opened the front door after fishing out his key (a little surprised to find it locked), and stepped into the house.

It was dark—none of the lights in the house were on, the only source of illumination coming from the dying embers of sky fading in through the windows. Kurt frowned slightly, taking off his shoes and closing the door. Once inside, he noticed a soft, high-pitched sound—the kind that he always heard when someone had left something electronic on. Maybe Blaine had watched a movie and turned off the DVD player, forgetting to turn off the TV with it (he'd done that several times before).

The house was getting uncomfortably dark. Wondering if maybe Blaine was just taking a nap, he made his way quietly to couch in the living room.

It was empty.

A tickle of foreboding crept down his spine.

"Blaine?" he called softly, trying once more to hear—

OH. Oh, that wasn't the tv, that was _Blaine_, he was hearing Blaine again—faint, muffled, tiny fissures in Blaine's mental walls that let out miniscule streams of sound into Kurt's mind, too quiet and small for him to distinguish what they felt like…

Then Kurt saw him: lodged into the corner made by the TV stand and the wall. He was hunched in on himself, knees drawn up protectively, grasping his head with hands that clawed first into his hair, then into the air around him—and it took a few minutes for Kurt to realize his shaking shoulders were the accompaniment to his quiet crying.

Something clenched tightly around his chest.

"…Blaine?"

Blaine jerked violently, choking on a startled breath and looking up at Kurt in surprise.

As if he hadn't known Kurt was there.

…Blaine _always_ knew Kurt was there. Blaine could feel Kurt before he even entered a room. A misty unease settled over Kurt's lungs, and he took in the tear-stained cheeks and disheveled hair.

"What's wrong?" he asked cautiously.

Blaine studied him with red-rimmed, amber eyes. Kurt frowned at the eye color, at the gaze that was untamed, off-kilter, intense. He was suddenly reminded of the day Blaine had first awoken on his couch—he had seemed wild then, almost inhuman. But that was before Kurt had gotten to know him. Blaine himself had told him he wasn't human, but Kurt thought Blaine was the most humane person he had ever met. This person in front of him, this creature hunching over itself in the corner of the living room, this wasn't all Blaine. Not the Blaine Kurt knew, the Blaine Kurt was in—was crushing on. This was… part of this was something else.

"Is it the magic?" Kurt realized, voice hushed. "Is that what's been bothering you all this time?" Blaine just stared, looking lost, not even really seeing Kurt.

And then suddenly his expression morphed. A hard determination sculpted his features, and Blaine stood up, grabbing Kurt's forearms in a firm, unyielding grip. Kurt heart jumped in his throat as Blaine methodically began to move forward, forcing Kurt to take backward steps in time with him in order not to fall over. Kurt almost tripped over his own feet as Blaine, expression hard and concentrated and unchanging, body tense and controlled, walked them until Kurt's legs hit the back of the couch. Kurt collapsed down onto it quickly. He didn't like this. He didn't like this. He wanted Blaine back, he didn't like this silent creature at all.

Blaine followed, muscles flexing in restraint as he reached out carefully to slide his hand up one of Kurt's sleeves.

Kurt breathed in fast through his nose. "What are you doing?" he asked quickly. Blaine open his mouth but no sound came out. Instead, another hand moved, shaking more than the first one, sliding slower up his other arm, feeling the muscle carefully. Blaine watched his ministrations intently, moving slowly back down to Kurt's wrist. He pressed into Kurt's palm with his thumb, stepped into the segments of Kurt's hand. Kurt could only watch, licking suddenly dry lips, unease warring with worry warring with fascination.

Something flickered in Blaine's expression.

He interlaced their fingers and waited.

_Desperation _started to seep into Kurt's ears; a faint, sharp hum.

Squeezed tighter. His other hand moved up Kurt's arm—and Kurt saw the moment Blaine felt the inscription because he _froze_.

_A spike of panic, distorted as if through a radio. _

Blaine's fingers slowly traced down the words, and Kurt's eyes widened, his lips parting in surprise at the sudden, unexpected pulse of _hunger _that electrified his veins at the touch. It hadn't felt like this when Mercedes had been touching it. It—

_Fear._

Kurt could only watch as a quick, sobbing breath burst out of Blaine's lips, his face contorting back into the distressed picture it had been twisted into when Kurt found him sitting on the floor. He moved his hands quickly back up Kurt's arms, pushing the sleeves up this time and firmly dragging his hands down, moving to his shoulders, the base of his neck, his covered collarbone, a strange combination of swift and careful and firm and this was _not the time to be getting turned on, Kurt, if there was ever a worse time for his hormones to start spinning out of control—_

"Blaine," it was breathier than he meant it to be, "talk to me, let me"—he huffed out a surprised breath as Blaine's hands ran carefully down his chest and a siren song of something that felt like arousal started singing in his head—"let me help," he ended on a dry rasp. Blaine nodded, blindly, and Kurt couldn't tell if he had actually heard or if he was just nodding. He moved closer, his hands raking over Kurt's stomach. The muscles there twitched and the sound got louder.

Blaine's walls were dropping. That must be it, why he was hearing him so clearly now. His walls must be falling, he must be losing control.

He should do something about that. …_Right?_

Kurt didn't know what was going on, he didn't—and he should want this to _stop_, because he didn't know why Blaine was doing this, what was on his mind, why he was—but he really,_ really_ didn't want this to stop_. He really didn't. _He closed his eyes, futilely trying to pretend he was at Mercedes', or the mall, or with the black kid with the bad wardrobe.

Fingers—Blaine's fingers—quietly slid around his hip. They started on the sliver of skin bared by the riding up of his shirt and crept even further underneath the fabric until the whole hand lay hot and tentatively resting flat against his stomach; then, lightly stroking past his stomach, the thumb tickling—

"_Oh_," Kurt gasped as the touch sent a jolt down through to his groin, eyes shooting open. Blaine's arm seized and he clawed his hand around Kurt's hip like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to the world. Kurt took in shaky air as Blaine's other hand came up to cup the side of Kurt's neck and jaw, his thumb resting just in front of the ear. He had lost his control, he must have, because Kurt could hear him so clearly now, could hear the _need_ that was thrumming down his arms and buzzing in his fingers, the _fear_ trembling in his breath, as if he had never been muffled at all—and in the silent dark, Kurt found himself tensing as Blaine moved in close.

"What—?" he started to ask, but Blaine interrupted him.

"I _feel_ you," he muttered desperately, and Kurt had never seen him so unraveled. He pressed his forehead against Kurt's and Kurt could feel his breath fluttering against his cheeks. "All the time. When you sleep. When you're awake. When I _dream_—" Kurt sucked in a breath as Blaine's hand slid slowly up his side. "Stronger all the time, like I don't even know who I—what I'm—I _can't_—Kurt, _please_—"

Kurt couldn't look at anything but those lips—so close, so _close_—centimeters away from his own. Blaine was scorching against him, and Kurt was dangerously close to panting, or hyperventilating, or not breathing altogether, and Blaine _shuddered_ and Kurt hadn't thought it possible for him to move any closer but he _was closer_, suddenly_._

"All day away from you and still underneath my skin," it poured out of him feverishly. "Inside of me like a toxin, all day, and you _do_ something to me,_ I can't control it_, you—you're so—_please_," he entreated against Kurt's lips. Kurt trembled with the effort to keep still as the hand stroking up his side started mapping out his ribs. "I can't—_please_—" Oh _god_…

Kurt was going to hate himself so much for what he was going to do next, he just knew it.

"This," he started and he cursed himself for the words as they exited his mouth: "Is this because you want to? Or because…" He swallowed and forced himself to keep talking; it wasn't like Blaine didn't know, anyway. "B-because I want you to?"

Kurt crossed his fingers and _prayed _as hard as he could to whatever empty figure was listening above as he waited for Blaine's reply. Because he'd shatter if it was the second reason, he'd just break. Please please please please _please…._

Blaine was silent. His palm, still scorching against Kurt's skin, caressed down his neck. Something loving. Tender.

_Hot._

"I don't know," he breathed.

Kurt squeezed his eyes shut.

Because _how _was he supposed to do the right thing when everything in him was screaming for this to keep going? And Blaine, still tracing the outlines of his body… unthinkingly, like maybe this was a reaction to what _Kurt _wanted him to do, like maybe it was just like that night four weeks ago when Kurt had tried to force him into something he'd never wanted to do—how could he let Blaine continue when neither of them knew who really wanted this?

Mercedes' words flashed through his head: _'You don't think you'd be able to tell if he was struggling against something he didn't want?' _

"Show me what's you. Show me you." Blaine kept whispering as if it were a prayer, an invocation. "Please. Show me what's you."

What was the right thing to do, really?

"Show me what's you."

Tiptoeing fingers sketched shivering patterns into his skin.

Down his neck.

Over his ribs.

"Show me what's you."

Maybe all Blaine needed was evidence that it really was him. That he really did love Kurt and it wasn't just his empathy making him feel that way. Maybe…

"Show me you."

Kurt forced out air and he… _gave up. _Okay._ Okay. _He thought he said it out loud, he must have, because Blaine's breath poured out of him like a sigh—and he didn't know who moved first, they were so close, and maybe they both just moved at the same time, but suddenly his lips and Blaine's were brushing against each other—gentle and hesitant in a way Kurt didn't expect—and then firmer but still slow, and Blaine's hand slid back down to his waist and _gripped _and Kurt breathed in and brought his hand up to bury his fingers in those curls, and they were moving, Kurt getting up on his knees and pushing Blaine backward onto the couch because _yes yes YES_ he had been waiting for this since the minute he laid eyes on this boy and he couldn't stop, it was perfect and amazing and so many other things that—

Kurt had never thought of kisses as sexy. They were romantic—the end result of fairy tales, the ultimate expression of love in musicals—and even though he _knew _kissing led to making out, and far more explicit things, he had never really viewed kissing itself as something sexy.

But _this._ If he never felt anything but _this_ for forever…

Kurt didn't even know what his hands were doing, only knowing that he had to get closer, as close to this boy as possible, to touch and sense everything about the body underneath him and nothing mattered except the feel of Blaine's muscles under his palms, Blaine's fingers sliding down his spine, Blaine's lips, Blaine's tongue, _Blaine Blaine Blaine._ It was like a part of his brain had been turned off—and it must have been the same for boy beneath him because, for the first time, Kurt felt like he could see into Blaine as clearly as Blaine could see into him—and he was chaotic and wild underneath everything, and he had truly lost all self-control now because bursts of pleasure were racing up Kurt's back from Blaine's fingers, magic that he couldn't stop, he didn't initiate, that sometimes scared him, and Kurt could _see_ it, could _see _how it made him fist his hands in weak prevention before want spasmed them flat out against Kurt's skin again and Kurt didn't think he could find anything more intoxicating than the knowledge that it was _Kurt _that was doing this to Blaine, that was making him fall apart like this (not like Kurt was any better, dear _god _he didn't need magic to make this enjoyable, and it was overwhelming, he was _shaking_ and still those heated fireworks of pleasure exploding inside of him from feverish fingers were making everything so much more _intense _and—)

_WHAT WAS HE DOING HE NEEDED TO STOP NOW._

Kurt wrenched himself away from Blaine's lips with a gasp and Blaine craned his neck as if to follow him, a small whine of protest sounding from the back of his throat before his head dropped boneless back down onto the couch. Kurt swallowed air, feeling dizzy, off-balance. He waited to catch his breath before he spoke, intensely aware of the heavy rise and fall of Blaine's own chest as he did so. He shouldn't have done that. That had been…

"Wow." It came out like an explosion of air, and it was _not _what he had meant to say. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry!" he rushed. "I didn't mean—I shouldn't have done that, I shouldn't have—"

Blaine suddenly started shaking, and Kurt looked up at his face in concern—only to find that he was laughing quietly.

"Wow," Blaine agreed, giggling louder _(and holy crap was that adorable). _His laugh was contagious, and Kurt found it tickling its way up their conjoined bodies as some kind of order came to the emotions racing through his mind. "_Wow_," Blaine repeated, his head rolling back with the force of his laughter. Kurt relaxed back down onto the couch, because his arms were getting tired from holding himself up (but, really, because relaxing back onto the couch actually meant collapsing back onto _Blaine _and that sounded like a really fantastic idea right now).

"Did that help?" he asked hesitantly. Blaine nodded.

"Yes. _Yes_. I feel like I can _think _again. Oh my god…" Laughter shook his chest, tickling Kurt's body.

"Where did that _come_ from?" Kurt murmured into Blaine's neck. Blaine made a high noise in the back of his throat, before erupting into more giggles. His arms, loosely encircled around Kurt's back, tightened their grip, pulling Kurt closer.

"Are you kidding?" Blaine's stomach moved with the jerked movements of his laughter. "I've wanted to do that for _ages!_"

He was still laughing, but Kurt suddenly couldn't laugh along with him. He stilled, Blaine's words echoing oddly around his head, before placing his hands firmly on Blaine's chest and sitting back up again. Blaine sat up with him (a little awkwardly, as Kurt was half-straddling his hips), clutching at his back to stop him, before letting his hand slide back down to Kurt's waist as their eyes met. Giddiness warred with concern inside those hazel eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Kurt asked, a vague, unsettling feeling that almost spelled _betrayal _climbing up his ribs. "All this time you've been feeling this—and you've _felt _what I feel for you. You can't have not noticed. Why didn't you say anything?"

Blaine looked at him, licking his lips in nervous habit, one of his hands stroking soothing lines up and down Kurt's back (seemingly unaware he was doing it).

"I felt it," he admitted, searching Kurt's eyes, "the minute I saw you. But I couldn't tell if it was you or me. Or even if it was… me or the magic_. _And then it kept getting more intense, like I couldn't be happy until I was near you, and… I didn't know who I _was_, anymore. I couldn't control my body. I've never… you do something to me, to _it_, and sometimes it feels like I've got a separate creature inside me. There's me, Blaine, and then there's… " _the magic_, Kurt finished in his head. He wondered that Blaine hadn't claimed the magic as a part of himself, like he had in Kurt's bedroom so many weeks ago. He contemplated what that meant as a wondrous smile spread across Blaine's face.

"You knew," he added with the kind of contented amazement castaways settled into when they'd finally been rescued. "You asked me." The hand stepping lightly up Kurt's spine moved to cup his neck, and Kurt's heart inflated at the intimacy of the gesture.

"I did," he said, the extra air seeping out and filling his voice.

"You did," Blaine agreed, leaning in, and Kurt couldn't help but notice how close his lips were. "You asked me if it was you or me. You knew."

"You…" Words. Words were coming out of his mouth. "It was you, then?" Closer. The hand on his back slipped down to his thigh.

"It was me," Blaine hummed. (_Closer_.)

"It was you," Kurt repeated mindlessly and he really didn't understand why he was still _talking_. "It was…"

"Me," Blaine traced against his lips. A whimper slipped out of Kurt's open mouth before he could catch it, and then they were kissing again, the hand on his neck steadying him as the hand on his thigh pulled him closer, moved to under his knee and lifted as Blaine gently lowered him onto the couch (Kurt grinned against his mouth at the change of roles) and some part of Kurt thought _vulnerable _and _wait _as Blaine spread Kurt's legs and moved into the gap they created, but a larger part thought _oh fuck yes _as Blaine kissed him, sparks of intense _craving_ crackling out of Blaine's hands and flushing Kurt's body and that was about the time when his fingers strangled the back of Blaine's shirt.

"…nly you," Blaine was saying between kisses, moving down his neck, "I'm only me with you."—Kurt clutched at his shoulder blades and tried to bring his mouth back up to his, but Blaine kept murmuring against his skin, and Kurt shivered and he couldn't _think _and—"I don't have to control it with you." Kurt heard _relief_ crying out from Blaine, so loud it was intoxicating, and a heady rush of giddiness swept up and over him. "God, you're _amazing_, you…"

Blaine was back up by Kurt's jaw. "Oh god," Kurt groaned, grabbing at dark curls roughly and tugging them so that their faces were closer to each other. "Stop talking!"

Blaine laughed inside of Kurt's mouth and Kurt clutched at his back and flipped them, suddenly, pressing Blaine into the couch.

Blaine gasped into the kiss and he grabbed the back of Kurt's neck possessively, and Kurt slipped in his tongue, and then there was no more talking for a very long while.


	19. Do We Have To Read The Kissing Parts?

**Chapter Summary: Kurt uses magic. Blaine talks about Dalton. Also, Kurt and Blaine kiss. A lot.**

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><p><strong>AN:** _This fic is so long_, goodness gracious me. This was going to be the start of the next chapter, but I felt like it fit the last chapter more than it does chapter ten. This chapter hopefully answers a few questions about magic, Blaine, and Dalton. The storm is very close to breaking over these boys' heads, so I figured I'd give them a little bit of time to themselves before they had to face it, especially since everything was so intense last chapter. I am unfortunately running on little time right now, but I promise I will attempt to answer all your comments soon. Thank you so much for the detail you all leave in your reviews, they really encourage me to do the best I can with this fic! You are all wonderful, and I love you all. I hope you enjoy this final part of chapter nine!

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><p>"Just try it."<p>

Kurt hummed skeptically. Blaine traced his way up his arms, lying lazily on the couch and giving him that doped-up smile he'd been flashing Kurt all day. Kurt's head was stuffy with Blaine's contentment, affection, amazement. It made it hard to focus. Kurt wondered if this was what Blaine felt when he was in the choir room.

"Come on. It doesn't hurt to try!"

Kurt bit his lip. "Okay… but don't make fun of me if this doesn't work."

"It'll work," Blaine assured earnestly.

Kurt took a breath and leaned down, feeling ridiculously stupid. A shiver of anticipation crawled over the flesh of his brain _(that was Blaine)_. They kissed.

Nothing happened.

He pulled away quickly. "See?"

"No, wait," Blaine grabbed his hips. "Come on, Kurt, you're not trying."

Kurt felt a flash of annoyance _(that was him)_. "I _am_—!"

"You have to really _think_," Blaine interrupted, rubbing his hip soothingly. "One more time. Please?"

Those wide eyes were going to get Kurt in trouble one day. Kurt rolled his eyes, fighting a smile and pretending reluctance.

"Fine. Once more."

"Really focus," Blaine reminded him. Kurt let out a long sigh and nodded.

He bent down.

"Think of something good," Blaine whispered into his mouth as it moved to capture Blaine's lips a second time. And Kurt tried to push aside the fascinating sensation of Blaine's emotions, the delicious newness of Blaine's mouth… and focused.

For a minute, it was just the soft sucking of lips. And then—

Suddenly Blaine arched up into him, and Kurt felt his own body convulse as something _filled _him, cascading down his throat and gurgling through his veins like some kind of crackling, molten river of fire, rushing and colliding down his limbs as crashing waves, sparking something hungry in him, and Kurt _wrenched_ away, terrified he had done something wrong, even as a very large section of himself admitted that he'd be happy if he never had to move ever again. He wondered if this was what it was like to be high.

He reached for his breath, feeling like he had just performed in a Cheerios competition.

Blaine stared back at him, and his eyes were a glowing, unending amber. They slowly moved over to the table, and a tickle of laughter echoed around Kurt's head. Kurt traced the gaze with his own, staring at the wobbly-formed cup of coffee resting innocently atop it.

_Oh, wow…_

Kurt let out a triumphant _ha!_, watered down by the extra sound of breath. He'd done it!

"Coffee," Blaine stated wryly. "_That's_ what you think of when you think of 'something good'?"

"Shut up," Kurt pushed against his shoulder, and Blaine laughed, clear and wonderful. "What did _you_ think of?"

"You," Blaine said simply. Kurt felt a blush heating his cheeks and didn't know what to say. Blaine squinted at the cup on the table.

"Is that… from the Lima Bean?"

Kurt was sure the blush had spread down his body, now, humiliatingly red and entirely too visible for his liking.

"It reminds me of you," he mumbled. Blaine's head snapped back to look at Kurt, his entire face lighting up.

"Really?" he asked, a grin splitting his cheeks. _(elation in his head, that was Blaine) _Kurt hit him on the shoulder.

"Don't go fishing, you'll never catch anything," he admonished, smiling. _(affection fizzing up behind his nose, that was him) _Blaine laughed and held up his hands in surrender. They came to rest easily back on his hips as Kurt settled back onto Blaine's chest, comfortably nosing into his neck.

"Congratulations," Blaine said into his hair. "You are now officially a Magician."

"And here I thought you were just trying to get me to kiss you," Kurt grinned against his throat. "Do I get a magic wand?"

"You get a Blaine. I hope that's not too disappointing."

"I don't know, I think that's bad marketing," Kurt said thoughtfully. "Every other magician on television has one. I kind of feel cheated. I was really excited to handle a big stick."

Blaine snorted. "I'm sorry I kept you so misinformed."

"I would have taken such good care of it."

"I'm sure you would have."

"Polished it every night and everything."

Blaine choked underneath him, and Kurt grinned wickedly as arousal sung faintly in his ears _(that was…)_.

"You think you're so funny," Blaine muttered, a hand reaching up to tug fondly on Kurt's hair. Kurt huffed against Blaine's skin.

"I don't think," he corrected, smoothing out the area Blaine had so nonchalantly ruined (they were going to have to talk about that). "I _know_."

They sat for awhile in comfortable silence before a thought struck him.

"Hey, if kissing you is what makes me a magician," Kurt started slowly, "how many people did you kiss at Dalton? Have you been hiding secret manwhore tendencies underneath that enigmatically charming exterior?"

Blaine laughed softly. "No, it's not like that. Most of the people at Dalton, they're naturally inclined to…" he trailed off. Kurt gripped the shoulder his hand was resting on in silent support, listening to the dulled disconcertment sounding inside his head _(that was definitely—well, the dull part at least was Blaine)_. The boy beneath him sighed deeply, slipping into the tired tone Kurt had come to recognize as his 'Dalton voice'. "They call it 'talent,'" he explained. "Their brains fire a certain way that… I don't know how to explain it. They could… command me? I think they were calling on the magic to do something, and since the magic is inside of—I mean. The magic _is_ me." Kurt frowned at the belated correction. "I just… did it. But they'd been conditioned through generations and generations to interact with magic, they didn't have to touch me. If they wanted to do something that I couldn't do by myself, and they wanted to do it with magic,_ then _they'd touch me. But no kissing. They'd just grab my hand or my arm and access the magic that way."

"So what you're saying is they could control you," Kurt stated blankly, not liking the sound of that _at all_. Reassurance caressed his back from Blaine's palms.

"It wasn't too bad. It was mostly just physical stuff, just doing things. Sometimes feelings. But they couldn't tell me what to think."

Kurt's stomach jolted at the phrasing, more than a little nauseous at Blaine's blasé attitude. "Okay," he said, voice a little higher than normal but trying his best to stay calm. He pulled himself closer into Blaine's warmth, wrapping himself around him—stupidly, as if he could protect him from Dalton and those who resided there with only his body (his arms tightened around Blaine anyway). "So, the kissing?" he asked carefully, both needing and dreading the answer. "Where does that come in?"

Blaine was silent for a very long time. Emotions Kurt couldn't translate warred inside his head _(definitely mostly Blaine)_.

Then: "It's a long story."

Kurt tensed. "We have time," he murmured in what he hoped was a comforting manner.

Another pause. Kurt worried what it was about this story that was making Blaine so hesitant. He tried to feel only reassurance and support, to calm Blaine in the same way he always calmed Kurt. It seemed to work; the emotions settled and he felt Blaine relaxing into the couch a little, his grip on Kurt's head and the small of his back no longer tensed.

"There was—this boy," Blaine began. "Andrew. He was like you, in the sense that I was drawn to him and I didn't know why. Not as strongly as I'm drawn to you, but…" he gave a half, sort-of shrug and Kurt felt the muscles moving underneath his arm. "He was one of the first people I'd run into at Dalton, and for the first year I was there, he was one of the only people I knew. Him, David, and Wes. And I… I hated him, but I…" He let out a heavy breath. "He wanted to try things, and I didn't. But he liked getting what he wanted so, of course, he was an asshole about it. And he was really talented—that's what they called him, 'talented'—he didn't even have to concentrate and he could get me to do anything."

"He wanted the kissing," Kurt said. The knowledge was a simmering pit of tar low in his stomach.

"He wanted the kissing. Wes and David kept him away from me, for the most part. At least, during that first year. But I… was very stupid. And very naïve."

Kurt tightened his grip. "What happened?" he asked. "Is he why you ran away?"

Blaine grew rigid underneath him.

Dread. _(he didn't know anymore who that was)_

"…What is it?" Kurt probed tentatively. Blaine opened his mouth, but closed it shortly after. Then opened his mouth again.

"I don't want you to misunderstand," he started carefully. Kurt tensed. "So please, listen carefully to what I'm about to say. There were people at Dalton who could command magic. I want to be honest with you. No more secrets between us. Nothing happened to make me run away."

Kurt felt like he had just been presented with one of those optical illusion postcards. _The—what?_

"Okay," he said slowly.

He had always been horrible at those postcards. He could never get his eyes to ignore the details and unfocus enough to see the hidden picture.

"I don't get—"

"Can we try something?" Blaine interrupted. Kurt would have sat up and glared at him for his evasion tactics, but he was a little too comfortable where he was to move.

"Like another kissing thing? I feel like you're inventing excuses for us to make out."

Blaine laughed. "Ah, tragedy! You've found out my dastardly plan," he protested (_but Kurt heard his sudden shyness_). "Actually," he continued uncertainly, voice suddenly soft, "I wanted to try to rebuild my walls a bit. Not totally, just… I… it's still a little hard to get a grip on things right now. I mean I know what I'm feeling, but I—it'll just be easier to think if I can separate it a bit more. I can never really build them by myself, they always fall apart on me when I try."

"Of course," Kurt said. "Of course! Um… how do we do that?"

Blaine gently maneuvered Kurt's body so that their mouths were matched over each other, quietly caressing his cheeks with his thumbs. Something tender entered his (still amber) eyes, and it stole Kurt's breath.

"Just focus," he said softly. "I'll do the rest."

"Okay," Kurt sighed.

"The last time I did this, it hurt," Blaine warned him. "But I don't want you to stop or freak out, not unless it's hurting _you_. I'll be fine."

"Okay," he breathed. The phantom shadow of Blaine's lips brushed against his before the real feature replaced it. Kurt braced himself.

It slammed into him like a crashing tidal wave. Everything in him stretched in thirst with a suddenness and intensity that scared him, and he found himself pulling with greedy invisible fingers at the well of fire hiding inside of the boy beneath him—except he didn't have to pull at all, it was rushing into him like some kind of niagara of blazes, igniting inside of him and—that faint feeling of claws raking down his back, that was Blaine, and so was the magic that was pouring inside of him, he knew that, but it felt so different, creating a need inside of him he didn't even know could be made, but it was—he _needed _it, this feeling, this—

Blaine, Blaine, _Blaine._ This was about Blaine, not about whatever it was that was happening to him, _Blaine. _He needed a breath.

It physically _hurt _to tear himself away. Blaine made a strangled noise as he did so, and Kurt barely stopped himself from whining as he caught sight of the glazed-over, burning amber eyes and flushed cheeks.

"Why did you stop?" Blaine asked, breathless. Kurt shook his head wordlessly, eyes wide, and he looked down to find he had changed Carole's couch into a chez lounge (much more fashionable).

"Couldn't focus," he explained. Blaine glanced down and started cracking up, an uncontrollable giggle that was wilder, rougher than his joy last night. "We should fix the couch," Kurt stated and Blaine nodded, reaching for Kurt and they were kissing again, and that feeling—wildness, heroin, crack cocaine, _pleasure_,God only knew what it was but Kurt needed it, it filled him, finding holes and crannies inside of him dusty with disuse and neglect and _burning _through them and _the couch, Carole's couch, flowers and triangles, focus, Kurt, focus, focus._

When he pulled away this time, it felt like he was diving underwater, and he found himself leaning back in for oxygen before he was even conscious of having gotten wet.

"Oh," Kurt moaned between kisses, "we should… should stop, we should…"

"Stop," Blaine agreed, nodding, but neither of them did. "Yes…"

His hands gripped Kurt's sleeves, and a tongue pressed into someone's mouth.

_Stop._

Kurt bent his knee and it dragged up Blaine's thigh, and Blaine bit into his lip in reply, magic rushing hot down his throat and Kurt realized those fingers, _piano hands_, were etching designs like they were being puppeted by something else, playing the keys to a song Kurt didn't know, couldn't hear, down his arms, over his shoulders, his neck, his collarbone, his ribs, the small of his back, maybe he was the song maybe Blaine was playing him his spine his hip—

_STOP._

His entire body tingling like it was just waking up from having fallen asleep, the body below him writhing, arching up into him like being electrocuted eyes rolling lips glued together tongue and still those hands mapping strange constellations into his veins, sparks shocked into him from rubbing feet against a carpet electricity zapping little gasps into grinding hips and skin heat _drugs flushing into his veins_—

STOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOP.

Kurt tugged away, hands turning to fists in curly hair as those fingers kept playing his skin. His forehead rested against Blaine's as he tried to breathe through what he could only describe as a sudden, painful withdrawal. "This is intense," he pushed out through his teeth. Blaine breathed in slowly underneath him, singing worry into his ears _(that was Blaine)_.

"Yeah," he said, the word shaky. "Are you okay?"

"For the most part." His eyes fell shut and he cried out involuntarily as Blaine's fingers passed over the magic embroidered in his arm.

"Sorry," Blaine breathed.

Kurt swallowed, trying to loosen his grip on Blaine's hair. "This isn't you, is it?" he asked softly. Blaine glowing amber eyes told him the answer, even as the boy beneath him shook his head.

"It's always me, even when it feels like it isn't." A creeping alarm _(that wasn't coming from Kurt)_ added to the pounding in his head, a tempo his heart echoed as Blaine slowly stiffened underneath him. "It's not that I don't want this. I'd just like to be in control when it happens."

"Yeah. I get—yes," said Kurt, whose salivary glands seemed to have run out of fluid at the thought of continuing what they'd unknowingly started. "Is there anything I can do?"

"I don't know," Blaine spoke through his teeth. "This has only ever happened with you."

"Maybe if we just go with it, if we…" Kurt's tongue was sandpaper in his mouth. He had no idea what this was supposed to lead to, but he was pretty sure he wasn't ready for it, whatever it was. "This happened yesterday, right? What happened to make it go away?"

Blaine huffed out a harsh breath. "You did," he bit out.

Kurt strangled his grip on his hair and forgot to breathe as fingers dug into the magic in his arm and _want_ tore through his system like a tornado. "Sorry!" he squeaked. "I—"

"_Walls_," Blaine interrupted, and it sounded so much like a moan Kurt had to close his eyes. "Help me build walls!"

"Okay, right," he panted. "Yes. Walls." And he leaned down and they were kissing again, but this time Kurt was going to _focus_, damn it, and they were going to build walls and he was _not_ going to think about kissing Blaine senseless or slotting their hips together where they lay so close to each other or pressing down just so…

"Kurt!" came the gasp, half laugh and half something much more searing.

"I'm sorry!" Kurt pulled away. "It's just that we're kissing and… and we're _kissing_. And…"

"Let's try this another way," Blaine said, placating even as Kurt could feel muscles straining against his own in Blaine's effort to keep them still. Somewhat awkwardly, Blaine maneuvered them both into a sitting position. The kiss must have done _something_, because it seemed Blaine was able to keep his hands from roaming over Kurt's skin now. Which was an improvement. (…right?) "Take my hands."

Kurt took them. Blaine held tight to point of almost being painful.

"Okay. Now. Listen." He leaned his forehead gently against Kurt's, eyes closed, his every move tight with careful control. Kurt's lids fell shut as Blaine's voice seeped into him. "Picture a forest in your mind. A deep, green forest, with tall, tall trees. Picture yourself walking through it. There's no path for you to follow, but you know exactly where you're going. At the same time, you don't know where you'll end up. The ground is littered with old, dead orange leaves, but the canopies of each tree are verdant, lush." In a distant corner of his mind, Kurt felt his body going slowly slack—but it was secondary to the crunch of leaves under his feet, the smell of oak in the air around him, the feel of bark rough against his hands. "You come across a clearing. In the clearing is a pool of water. Clear, untouched. The water is so still and smooth it looks like glass. If you wanted to, you could look down and see straight through to the bottom of the pool. So you look down." Blaine's voice strained as it echoed around the clearing. Kurt knelt down and looked down into the pool. _Oh! _"You see me," Blaine's voice confirmed, even as he wasn't speaking, so still underneath the water. "You reach out, but your hands knock against something. It's the water. You can't get past the water. Because it _is_ glass. It's a window, a heavy glass that you can't break." Kurt knew where this was going even before Blaine said it, and he readied himself:

"It's a wall."

Blaine's hands suddenly tightened on his own and magic rushed up his arms and inflated his chest and burned through his body like it was everything he'd ever need for eternity but for a single, brief moment, Kurt was still starkly clear on one image: Blaine and him, a heavy glass wall separating the two of them—

The fire tore out of him as quickly as it had entered, back into Blaine's body as if into a vacuum, and he felt Blaine seize up and heard his sudden gasp as Kurt's eyes snapped open to find himself—

Back in the living room, in the exact same position he had left it. Almost as soon as it happened, it was over, and Blaine went slack against him, leaning heavily against his forehead.

"Did it work?" he asked breathlessly. Blaine nodded, the motion loose and lazy with exhaustion.

"Thank you," he sighed. Kurt tensed as Blaine dragged his head down to rest on his shoulder. He tentatively brought his hands up around Blaine's back. Blaine had always been incredibly physical with him, especially within the last week, but Kurt still sometimes marveled at the fact that a boy was so willingly touching him. It still sometimes felt temporary, like maybe if he did the wrong thing, Blaine would realize he had been hugging Kurt for far too long, and would stop touching him altogether.

But it was silly to worry about that. Because they were kissing practically all the time now, so if Blaine was physically repulsed by him, he probably would have noticed long ago.

A slight frown pinched his forehead as the thought led into another one.

"Hey," he started softly, hesitantly. Then stopped.

"Hmm?" Blaine asked contentedly.

"Are we… are we boyfriends, now?"

A lump of fear lodged itself in Kurt's throat as the words crept out. Blaine stayed silent for a few moments. Kurt was suddenly, harshly aware of the silence in his own head. _(Just him, now)_

"What else would we be?" Blaine asked carefully.

Kurt let out a relieved smile and he tightened his hold into a proper embrace, leaning back against the couch. Blaine moved with him, more pliant than Kurt had ever seen him be. He settled with a little pleased noise against Kurt's chest, and Kurt felt like someone had filled him up with liquid warmth at the sound. He brought one of his hands up to Blaine's head.

"I don't know," he said ruefully, playing with a curl. "I'm just being ridiculous. You're the Bing Crosby to my Marjorie Reynolds, after all."

"Why do you have to be a girl?" Blaine protested into his chest. "You look more like Fred Astaire. Let's make plans and do some dancing offstage. I think we can use a little implied homoeroticism."

"Oh, I think we're past implied."

Blaine hummed a quiet laugh, the vibrations of it echoing down Kurt's chest.

"Hey, Blaine?" he asked. "Who was the one who helped you build walls the first time?"

He waited, but Blaine didn't answer. Glancing down, he saw Blaine's eyes were shut; felt his breathing slowing, deepening. He was asleep.

Kurt held tighter and closed his eyes, relaxing into the cushions. It had been much too long of a day today, with too many complicated emotions. He already missed the feel of Blaine at the back of his mind; it felt like some integral part of him was missing. Which was silly, because he'd only known Blaine for a month, and he had been entirely himself before they'd met. Or, most of himself, anyway. All. Most? Maybe part of himself, but still he had access to everything should he decide to be all himself later. Or something. Kurt gave up trying to reason out his logic and let himself slip away to join Blaine in sleep. He wasn't making any sense, and anyway, he was starting to get a headache.


	20. Trust The Midas Touch!

**Chapter Summary: Andrew.**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Once more into the breach, my friends. I am so so sorry for the delay. You get two chapters instead of one in recompense! More in my Author's Note for the next chapter.

* * *

><p><em>"I knew you'd come."<em>

_ ._

_"…This isn't…"_

_"This isn't what?"_

_…_

_"What it looks like."_

_"And what does it look like?"_

_ ._

_"… Look, I don't want—I don't like you. I didn't come here just because you wanted me to, I—I don't even want to be near you right now."_

_"But that's a lie, isn't it? Because you keep coming back, Blaine. You want this just as much as I do."_

_"No. I don't. Stop… stop saying my name like that."_

_"Like what?"_

_"Just—stop._

_ ._

_Don't—"_

_"—Touch you? Why not? Isn't that the reason you're here?_

_…_

_Oh, now, this isn't so bad, is it?"_

_"I-I… I need you to help me build walls."_

_"In your mind?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Planning on locking yourself away from the rest of the world?"_

_"From you, ye—__aah!__Aa—__!"_

_"Insulting me isn't the way to gain my cooperation."_

_"Let go—L-Let—!"_

_"I'm sorry, I thought you wanted me to help you build walls?"_

_"You bast—__god!_"

"_Do you feel that? That's the magic telling you it wants this. You want this."_

_"Stop it!"_

_"Feel it. Just feel, Blaine. It feels good, doesn't it?"_

_(a cry)_

_"Doesn't it?"_

_"I don't—!"_

_"God, you're such an idiot. You don't even know why it feels like this, why you keep coming back for more, do you? All you care about is shutting it all out because it's gotten too much for you. Do you want to know what this feels like, Blaine? What your body is telling you every time someone tries something with you? That feeling you get every time I pull magic out of you, that's got you crying out, arching into me like a whore, that's __sex__, Blaine. It feels like sex."_

_"F-funny, I was going to say __rape__. But hey, tomato, toma—__AAH—F-fu—!__"_

_"Shut up. You need to stop talking while I'm talking. I'm making a point here! _

_ ._

_Better. You're the one who wanted walls, and I'm building them for you. But I'm not going to let you just ease into it. If you want me to help you block everything out, you're going to feel every single feeling you're hiding from while we do so. Focus. Focus on me, focus on what I'm feeling. Focus on Dalton, on every emotion pressing into your tiny little brain right now. __Feel__ it, Blaine. Don't pay attention to anything but what I'm telling you to feel. _

_That's it. Relax. Don't block it out. Just __feel__._

_ ._

_There you go…_

_ ._

_Now feel it as it disappears. It feels empty, right? This is what you've chosen, this is what walls __do__. Shut yourself off from us and this is what you'll always feel: empty. You're running away from yourself and you're running away from me and it's stupid, Blaine. We're meant to do this. That's why the magic is so addicting, because it's meant to be handled. Dalton knows how to handle it. __I __know how to handle it. I've been brought up my whole life learning how to handle you, Blaine—just __let me__._

_ ._

_Oh, sorry, forgot. You can talk now."_

_(coughing)_

_"I hate you."_

_"That's just the headache talking."_

_"Get your hands off of me. I don't enjoy this. I will __never __enjoy this."_

_"Never say never, Blaine."_

_"__I will never enjoy this.__ I don't care what you've been 'trained' to do or what it is you think you've learned—I don't want to be 'handled', or fucking emotionally-raped! Meeting up with you and letting you try things, __that's__ what makes me feel empty. I came here to have you help shield my mind, because for some fucking reason you're the only one in this place who seems to be able to handle complicated magic like that—not because I want more of anything you have to offer me. This is the last time I'm ever coming to you." _

_"Are you trying to say you only came here to use me?" _

_"Welcome to the club."_

_"I'm not going to let you just cut me off. I was born for this, I was born for __you__! Blaine—!"_

_(a cry)_

_ "__If you ever fucking touch me again I swear I will rip you apart, do you understand me?__"_

_"You can't run from this. Those walls aren't going to cut you off from what the magic really wants!"_

_"I __am__ the magic! And I know what it is I want! I'm sick of being manipulated into feeling what you want me to feel! None of it was ever me, Andrew, it was only ever you, and it's __over now.__"_

_"Just keep telling yourself that. You're stuck here, pretty-boy. Stuck at Dalton and stuck with me. You can pretend you don't want this for as long as you want, I don't care. I'm patient. But I helped build those walls; and one day, when you've forgotten they're there? I'll tear them down. And you'll be so overwhelmed with how much you feel me, how much you want me, that you'll be __begging__ me to touch you."_

_ ._

_"… I will never beg you for anything. Never."_

_ ._

_"Never say never, beautiful."_


	21. Thanks For Interrupting My Sex Dream

**Chapter Summary: Consequences begin to show their faces.**

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><p><strong>AN: **Again, I apologize for how long it's taken me to get this up! School completely whipped me. Thankfully, the next few chapters should be out pretty quickly! And, after a month of deliberation, I've determined that instead of dragging the story out in twenty bajillion chapters, this fic will actually have a sequel. So, this part will end with chapter twelve, as I stated it would way long ago, and the sequel will be about eight or nine chapters. For those interested, I now have a tumblr (sunandrainfic[.]tumblr[.]com), if you want to get updates and previews of fic I write! I hope you enjoy, and thank you all for being so loyal and patient with me! I really don't deserve you all, and I'm eternally thankful you've all stuck with me.

* * *

><p>It was a dream. Kurt knew it was a dream, misted with things familiar that he had never experienced before, even as it felt so real. Something was coursing through his veins like static, like broken pieces of glass tumbling painfully through his blood, underneath his skin.<p>

He was thirsty.

Under his hips were the hips he was pressing into, slowly, rhythmically, his hands flat and hot against the skin they firmly slid down.

Up the stomach.

Past the ribs.

Over the shoulders.

Down the arms.

Sparks of that static flew up like broken glass, shot into his fingernails and up into his bloodstream as he stroked that skin; tanned, burning hot with fever and sweat and trembling underneath him. Blissed-out amber eyes, lidded with pleasure, burned into him as he slid his hands against fevered skin.

Up the stomach. Past the ribs. Over the shoulders. Down the arms.

Each group of muscles jerking as he passed over them, sparks pulling out of tanned skin, burning hot with fever and sweat and need underneath him. Quiet broken moans coming from an eternally-parted mouth. Kurt's tongue came out to lick his chapped lips.

He was so _thirsty_.

The skin under his palms grew warmer. Tanned skin, fevered, burning hotter than any human's skin could burn. His hands grew red and raw in the onslaught of such heat but still he touched, faster now. Up the stomach, past the ribs, over the shoulders, down the arms. Large, fast movements that pushed his pelvis into the body beneath him, that _dragged _out golden threads of sparking glass that threaded through his fingertips and up his arms and into his blood, that filled his mind with foaming pleasure that scrubbed against his brain and leaked out his ears, throbbed down his body and _shoved _into the needy, pliant limbs beneath him—and still he wanted more, he needed _more, _almost there just oh please a little more he was almost he was _so thirsty._

"_Kurt,"_ Blaine moaned, voice so hoarse it was almost air. _"Kurt, please…"_

Faster, swiftly down the chest that arched into his touch, palms on fire, amber eyes beneath him so wide, so wide, they looked right through him as he pounded into the body beneath him, into the hips canting wildly up, the chest heaving and lifting into his palms, , the mouth parting and letting loose high, breath-painted whines, the amber eyes beneath him so wide, so wide, glossy with sex and sparking and draining of color and still so wide, burning through him as the tanned skin burned through his fingers, tears leaking out and down cheeks into the sheets beneath them.

_"Take it,"_ Blaine sobbed, _"Please, take it, Kurt, take it!"_

Lines of script stitched their way up his arms, in a language he couldn't read but he could feel, pulsating up his veins, and it felt like _bound to me_, felt like _thirsty_, felt like _need it,_ felt like _don't stop_, felt like _take it take it take it take it __take me__—_

Someone's scream ripped out of his throat as the boy beneath him broke and the fire flooded into him like a crashing tidal wave—_up his stomach past his ribs over his shoulders down his arms_—and they shuddered together, hands clasped tightly in grips of marble as _the one died and the other stopped breathing_—

Kurt gave a strangled cry and jerked awake as Blaine suddenly recoiled up from his position on his chest, choking on a gasp. The air thinned itself into tiny ribbons as they coughed themselves to consciousness, locking eyes and staring at each other with bald, unconcealed terror. Kurt's lungs burned with the too-real memory of suffocating, and he pulled in air to horde it in his chest out of fear it might still be happening.

"What was—"

"A dream," Blaine interrupted raggedly, limbs shaking. "Just a dream."

Kurt studied him with wide eyes, the room growing tight around them as realizations crept up the steps of his spine like scratching fingernails.

"You had it too," Kurt whispered. He shook his head in forceful denial, panic threatening to drown him and he tried to move away. No, no, what did that mean, what did that—? Blaine moved fast, gripping the sides of his head to stop him and searching his eyes intently.

"Hey, hey," he hushed, "hey, it's okay, it's okay."

"Blaine, we had the same dream!" Kurt cried, voice rising uncontrollably as the echo of the feeling of Blaine's body going limp underneath him crowded his thoughts. "We had the same dream and you _died,_ _how_ is—"

"It's okay," Blaine's voice was soft, soothing. "Kurt, it was just a dream, it's okay." His hands moved down Kurt's neck to his shoulders and leaving a trail of warm, fuzzy calm seeping into his skin. "We're fine. I'm right here. We're fine." Kurt's eyes closed without his permission as Blaine caressed gently down his arm. "It was just—" His thumb grazed a spot on the crook of Kurt's arm and a quick tug of _want _gasped out of Kurt's mouth, his eyes flying open. Blaine froze, and Kurt followed his gaze to look down at the stitching on his arm.

_In a language he couldn't read, but he could feel…_

Blaine's face grew soft.

"What does it say?" Kurt asked, fascinated at the sudden change in his expression.

Blaine shook his head, a small smile and—was he_ blushing_?

"It's not important," he murmured. "Something silly." His thumb stroked lightly over the very edge of the last letter. Kurt breathed in sharply through his nose. "I should get rid of it," Blaine said softly.

A pang of protest hit Kurt's chest. "Don't," he said, as surprised as Blaine when it slipped out of his mouth. Blaine watched him intently. "I like it," he admitted.

A beautiful, bashful smile lit up Blaine's face. "You do?"

Kurt nodded, unable to stop himself from smiling back. Blaine ducked his head, the blush climbing up his neck. "All right, then," he said to Kurt's sternum. His fingers took up their light stroking once again, skillfully outlining the stitching in the pale skin without ever actually touching it. Kurt's eyes fell half-shut in almost-sleep, his smile turning dreamy and the memory of the nightmare muted.

"You're cheating," he mumbled as he felt tiny, soothing ripples travel up his arm from Blaine's fingers. "Magic gives you an unfair advantage."

A small breath slipped from him as Blaine's lips suddenly brushed up his throat, electrifying down his veins.

"Still cheating?" he breathed into Kurt's skin. A high noise escaped Kurt's throat.

"So much!" he squeaked. "So much cheating happening right now!" Blaine giggled against his Adam's apple and adjusted himself on the couch, hips pressing comfortably against Kurt's own and lips trailing up his neck.

"Maybe there's something you can do to even up the playing field," he whispered against Kurt's jaw. The arousal that had been itching in his blood since the beginning of the dream spiked, and Kurt huffed a laugh, tangling his fingers in dark curls and bringing Blaine's lips to his own. Blaine groaned at the back of his throat and pressed down, suddenly, and Kurt gasped as pleasure flushed through his system and he felt his hips jerk upward—

"Oh! Dude! Did _not_ need to see that!"

He jumped and sat up quickly, pushing Blaine back to a reasonable distance as their unwanted visitors came bounding into the room.

"Puck! Finn, what are you–?"

"Sorry, man," Finn said, shrewdly taking in the two in front of him with not-at-all-apologetic eyes. Kurt blushed hard. "Puck insisted."

"Your mom makes the best macaroni _ever_, dude. You can't just say stuff like 'my mom's making macaroni' and not expect me to come over and eat it." Puck threw his jacket unceremoniously onto the back of the couch, jumping over it and squeezing between Blaine and Kurt like the expert life-ruiner that he was. Kurt was going to strangle him.

"How are you even here?" he asked, incredulous and attempting to ignore the mortification setting over him. He crossed his legs uncomfortably. "Weren't you working at the garage today?"

"Burt let me out early and I went to Puck's," Finn shrugged. "Then Puck wanted to come here."

Puck nudged Blaine knowingly. Blaine buried his burning face in the cushions. "So, _boys_… what are _you_ two up to this fine evening?"

Blaine's muffled snort did nothing to temper Kurt's incredulous glare.

"Noah," he said calmly, "if you do not vacate this couch within the next few minutes, I will slap you up the head so hard you'll be rushed to the hospital to be treated for blunt-force trauma." Puck laughed as Kurt attempted to unsuccessfully shove him away, swatting at him like he was a fly.

"Why so eager, Hummel? Too worried about getting back to boning each other?" Huffing in a combination of annoyance and humiliation, Kurt grabbed one of the couch pillows and started attacking Puck's shoulder—and then cried out as Puck found another pillow and started retaliating. Blaine attempted to prevent world war from breaking out as Finn watched, entirely unhelpful.

"You know I called this, though," Puck said to him, as if neither Kurt nor Blaine were in the room. "I told you they were totally doing it."

"We were not—we're not _'doing it'_!" Kurt hit him extra-hard with the pillow for emphasis. "And even if we were, it would be none of your—Blaine, stop laughing, you're just encouraging him!" he snapped, throwing the pillow at his boyfriend _(his boyfriend!)_. Blaine sent an apologetic look his way as he caught it, shoulders still shaking silently. Puck turned his attention to Blaine, who began defending himself admirably.

Kurt let out a sharp sigh, starting to wish the walls they had built in Blaine's mind earlier hadn't been quite so effective; if Blaine had been able to feel Puck and Finn coming in, none of this would have been a problem and they could have gotten back to kissing already. Oh god, did he want to get back to kissing. He looked back at his step-brother, silently retracting his vow to buy him anything Day-Glo orange.

"What happened to 'I'm here for you?' 'I've got your back?'" he accused.

"Never said the second one," Finn said.

_So much for brotherly solidarity. _

Kurt bolted up, grabbing the pillow back from Blaine (who had somehow managed to get around the coffee table and on top of the lazy-boy), catching Finn as he ran toward the kitchen for cover. Blaine called out in warning as Puck, seemingly sensing his friend's trouble, came bounding over to Finn for back-up, tossing him another pillow. Blaine came over to rescue Kurt, who didn't really need rescuing but was grateful for the help, and then suddenly they were formulating attack plans. And they all had some form of stuffed weapon, and then there were sides and territories and war cries, and… at some point, it stopped being annoying and started being fun—because those pillows were hideous anyway, and Kurt couldn't breathe for laughter, and…

He had never done something like this before. Had never been a part of something like this before. Kurt looked over at Blaine, whose face was glowing with a giddiness that made him suddenly look years younger, and his heart swelled at the realization that Blaine must have done things like this when he was a kid—that there must have been some happy memories amidst all the careful secrecy and trauma of his childhood.

And Kurt was sharing that with him. Those happy memories, they were this moment: they were pillow fights, and laughing until you couldn't breathe, and hiding behind your boyfriend because you lost your weapon and he's supposed to protect you anyway, it's part of being a good boyfriend, and…

_And they were boyfriends._

They were Kurt and Blaine versus Finn and Puck. They were us versus them. They were _us_.

This was what being an _us_ felt like.

Blaine looked at him curiously, his grin staying like an afterthought on his face as he cocked his head. Kurt shook his head, noticing for the first time that his feet had stopped moving. He shrugged slightly and smiled, continued staring.

Blaine's grin grew soft, and the air seemed to be filled with the imaginary floating down of wrecked pillows. It tickled the sides of his neck as Kurt studied the contours of his boyfriend's face; his arms; his waist. Found himself remembering the beginning of the dream: the insatiable thirst, the firm planes of a body beneath his fingers, the heated skin on his skin…

His lips parted.

Together.

Blaine's eyes, glinting amber and studying him as languidly as Kurt found himself looking.

_Us._

"…Doing it_,_" Puck whispered loudly, shattering the moment.

Kurt clenched his jaw and shared a look with Blaine.

The pillow flew in a graceful arc high over the room, hitting Puck directly in the face.

"Oh! Shit's serious now!" Puck cried over Finn's laughter, and he picked up the pillow and moved to attack—

That was when the front door opened and Carole stepped through.

Kurt caught his breath as everything skid to a halt.

His step-mother surveyed the damage done to her living room with a resigned expression.

"And here I thought getting off work early was something to be happy about," she said. Puck shoved his two pillows at Finn, who failed spectacularly at hiding them behind his back. Kurt and Blaine traded looks.

Carole only sighed heavily and moved past them all.

"I'm sure those pillows will be on the couch where they belong by the time I come back down to make dinner," she called as she trudged up the stairs. Finn and Puck, who had systematically horded all of the pillows and cushions at some point during the fight, started scrambling to put them all back. "And Kurt, Blaine," Carole turned.

Kurt tensed.

"Congratulations, you two. I'd say 'try to do a better job of hiding it when your dad comes home', but I don't think anybody in this house hasn't expected this, so you might just want to tell him straight."

Kurt stared with wide eyes and an open mouth as she disappeared up the stairs.

There was a heavy silence.

Then: "Dude, your mom is _awesome_."

"Tell me about it," Finn was dazed. Kurt shook his head and moved to help them put away the cushions. The sooner they were done, the sooner he could get back to kissing his boyfriend (speaking of kissing his boyfriend, was his boyfriend aware of the things that tongue was doing to his mental state? Blaine had to stop licking his lips, seriously, Kurt was watching him so intently he was starting to get a headache).

Blaine came to join them, and his fingers brushed nonchalantly over Kurt's arm as he moved past him to pick up a pillow. Then lightly, quickly, over Kurt's neck. Kurt tried to suppress his smile as they brushed fingers again, and as Blaine passed by him, he surreptitiously brushed against Blaine's hip. In this fashion, (brushing hands and backs and legs, and _thighs_) soon, everything was back in relative order—and Kurt was more desperate than ever to get back to the kissing.

"And duty calls," Puck said as the last cushion was wedged back into the lazy-boy. Kurt prayed to the ceiling that that meant they would be leaving soon, and started plotting how to get Blaine up to his room without being too obvious about it.

"We're still missing Sam and Artie," Finn shook his head, and Kurt wanted to hit something. "We can't go team until they call up that they're ready."

"We've got these two!" Puck placed a hand on Blaine's head and another on Kurt's shoulder. Kurt shrugged it off.

"I think I've made my thoughts on that game quite clear," he scoffed. Puck frowned.

"Oh, come on, it's just like the epic pillow fight we just had, but with guns. You could totally rock it!" Kurt quirked an eyebrow. Puck rolled his eyes. "Then my boy tiny over here," Puck placed his other hand on Blaine's head and ruffled his hair (_and god, Kurt needed to touch that hair and he needed to touch it now)_. Blaine playfully shoved both hands away, lips stretched in a wide smile. "He can be on your team and help you lose again, Finn."

"Thanks for the offer," Blaine started, glancing continually over at Kurt as he spoke. He licked his lips, seemingly unconsciously. "But…"

And _fuck_ itall, Kurt gave up.

"But we actually need to go upstairs and passionately make out for hours," he stated firmly, focused fixedly on Blaine's parted mouth and ignoring Puck's surprised '_really?'_. He grabbed Blaine (who had apparently gone limp with shock) by the wrist, and tugged him over to the stairs, and he probably would have been blushing furiously if he wasn't positive all the blood in his body was already pooling low down between his legs. "Maybe next time," he called as he made his way, single-mindedly, up to the second level.

Blaine made a small, helpless noise behind him and Kurt heard Finn speaking into the absence:

"…We can just play Smash one-on-one until Artie and Sam call."

"I totally called they were doing it," Puck muttered. "That was hot."

Kurt ignored them as he pulled Blaine down the hallway, opening his bedroom door and closing it almost as quickly in order to press him up against the wood and finally, _finally _pick up where they left off. His mouth covered Blaine's before his boyfriend could say anything.

"Mmph!" Blaine arched against him, winding his arms around his shoulders. It was harsh, and rough, and they needed it that way, they needed it _now_. Kurt felt a tongue pressing against his lips and he opened his mouth to grant it access, growling at the feeling as it tickled the roof of his mouth. Blaine tugged him closer. "Kurt," he said, voice not more than air. Kurt sucked the tongue in his mouth, hands moving down Blaine's ribs to his hips, lifting up the sweater to—

_—hands grasped tightly in grips of marble—_

Kurt jerked away, gasping in a breath as the image flashed against his eyelids. Blaine moved to grab his arms.

"What is it?"

—_draining of color and still so wide—_

Kurt shook his head violently, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Just a dream, it was just—

—_up the stomach, past the ribs, over the shoulders, down the arms_—

"No, no, no, no…."

"Kurt, calm down—_Kurt_—"

Hands were grabbing at him, something cool flowing up and into his veins, but his blood was _boiling_ and his _head was_ _pounding—_

_–take it take it take it take it—_

_"Kurt!"_

Blaine's hands, Blaine's magic flowing through his veins, it was Blaine, Blaine, _Blaine—_

"Kurt, I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong—please, I can't feel you anymore, remember, I can't feel you? Tell me what's wrong!"

It felt like his brain was overflowing with liquid fire, his blood was too hot, all he could see was blind, solid amber—no, no, all he could see was Blaine, Blaine on the floor, Blaine unmoving and dying, Blaine _dead_—

A loud, rasping noise filled the air, and Kurt realized distantly that it was coming from him.

"Kurt, please—!"

"My head!" he gasped, fingers grasping sightlessly at cloth, at Blaine's sweater. Cool hands came up to cradle his temples and Kurt gripped tightly at the wrists—this was Blaine, it was Blaine, living, breathing, not-dead _Blaine_—Kurt cried out as something too-hot invaded his skull. "No! Stop!" he clawed at Blaine's arms.

"What is it?"

"It hurts, stop!"

"What do you mean it hurts?" Kurt tugged at Blaine's arms, but they stayed where they were. "Open your eyes." He couldn't. "Kurt, open your eyes, look at me!"

He squeezed them shut before, with pure force of will, he pried his eyelids open—meeting Blaine's shocked gaze dead on. Someone let out a small whimper.

They started to slide shut again, but Blaine tilted his head up roughly, his thumbs pulling the lids open again. Fear started to paint his face as his amber eyes searched Kurt's face for something—Kurt didn't know what, only knew that he felt too hot, and looking at Blaine like this, those amber-glinting eyes, he was starting to feel so _thirsty_…

"Why…?" Blaine said, voice small and panicked. He backed away, dropping Kurt's head and pacing around the room before he was back, suddenly, cradling the back of Kurt's skull carefully in his hands. "No, no," he whispered, and terror clenched around Kurt's ribs as he wondered what Blaine saw. His mouth was so dry.

"What is it?"

"I must have done something to you, I must have… How could you…?"

"_What is it_?" Kurt snapped, feeling like his head was splitting in two. Oh god, he was so _thirsty!_

"Your eyes," Blaine said. "I—They look different."

"_How _different?" Blaine bit his lip and Kurt was suddenly seized with the desire to capture it with his own teeth. Oh _god, _he _needed_, he was _thirsty_, he _needed_—

"It doesn't matter," he said, forehead tilting to rest against Kurt's own. "We're going to fix this."

Kurt breathed out harshly against the urge to _take_—he didn't know what, but he was so _thirsty_ and he knew Blaine had it, whatever it was that would quench his thirst, Blaine _had it_—

"How?" he rasped.

"Look at me." It was said softly, the lightest of silk against his ears. Kurt dragged his eyes to meet an eternal hallway of honeyed-ocher. Something locked him in, hands at the back of his head freezing him over, so hot and fevered as he was. It drew him in, down into eternity, colored amber, covering him in solid stopped-time.

"Just look at me," the hallways whispered, and fingers dragged lightly over his skull. Down his neck.

Cool, cool syrup coated his brain. Slid slowly down his veins.

He was lost. Stopped. Fossilized.

Kurt didn't know where he was anymore. But it didn't hurt anymore, either. It just felt _better._

"Yes?" came the soft voice, echoing around his head.

"Yes," he breathed. It felt like relief—like he had been placed in clear, peaceful water.

Fossilized.

Safe.

"Good." The fingers were gone and his eyes fell shut, and Kurt felt himself falling against Blaine's chest, limp.

"What did you do?" someone was asking.

Oh. That had been him.

"I stopped it," came Blaine's voice, from some place far away. Kurt sunk downward. "It'll wear off in a few minutes."

Floating downward…

"I'll get rid of the magic in your arm. I've never left magic like that on someone's skin for so long. It must have bled into you in some way."

So warm…

"It must have been that."

A small, high noise sounded from the back of Kurt's throat. "No… don't get rid of it…" he slurred. "It's not that."

Deeper…

"I heard you… before that…."

Greedy black fingers grasped at him, pulling him down even deeper.

"_You what_?"

Something panicked snapped in the voice.

_"Kurt—no, Kurt, wake up, what do you mean? What do you mean you were hearing me?" _

Darkness laced his lips shut and he sunk into unconsciousness.

_"__Kurt! This is important! What do you mean you were hearing me?__"_

And he was lost.


	22. But The Kamikaze Pilots Wore Helmets

**Chapter Summary: Kurt finds out what he is.**

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><p><strong>AN:** We're almost done! Only two more chapters until the end, and then a tiny break so that I can post the sequel in closer intervals than this first story was posted. I'm sorry for the delay, but I hope this chapter is somehow worth the wait! It's pretty intense, just as a warning. Once again, thank you all for sticking with me. Also: **I promise I will lead you to a happy ending. It will just be a very complicated road getting there.** I hope you enjoy!

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><p>His body hurt.<p>

That was the first thing he noticed. There was an aching throb attending his veins, an itching crawling up the insides of his elbows; the backs of his knees; the pulse of his wrists; the webbing between his fingers and behind his ears. The discomfort quietly hummed in his chest, just loud enough for him to be aware of it but not enough to interrupt the silence of the space.

Something shifted. It sounded like cloth moving. Someone was sitting nearby. Maybe they had changed positions, crossed their legs. The room was cool flutterings against his skin.

Slowly, Kurt opened his eyes.

He was on his bed, lying above the covers and staring up at the ceiling. He blinked rapidly to clear the blur from his vision.

"How do you feel?"

Blaine's voice was soft brushes against his skin, and a small noise slipped out of his mouth in answer before he could properly form words.

"Strange," Kurt responded. "How long…?"

"You slept through the night. You're dad decided to let you sleep in for the day. It's eight in the morning," Blaine added when Kurt tried to look for the clock. Oh. He was missing school. "Does it still hurt?"

Kurt thought of the answer, taking stock of all the stretched-out aching pervading his bones. He nodded.

Fingertips lightly ghosted up his wrist and he sighed as it felt like his entire arm was dunked in a cool, soothing layer of… of _something_.

He turned his head to find Blaine, eyes amber, lying quietly curled up next to him.

"What is that?" Kurt breathed as the feeling traveled up over his shoulders and to his neck, following Blaine's fingers.

"Magic," Blaine said. Then he leaned forward to capture his lips in a kiss, and Kurt shivered as the aches trickled down his neck and his arms, flushed out by Blaine's presence—Blaine's _magic_, he corrected in his head. Blaine pulled away and Kurt frowned. Concentrating, he tried to pull all the strings of his focus back into himself. He felt like he had been stretched over a surface too wide to properly hold him.

"What's wrong with me?" he struggled to ask. "You're not freaking out any more."

"No," Blaine said. Some kind of knowledge glinted in his eyes, worrying a little at the edges of Kurt's stomach. "I know what's happening now." Blaine smiled and leaned in to kiss him again. A tickle of thirst sparked at the back of Kurt's throat, and he deepened the kiss before Blaine pulled away again. Kurt moved to follow before stopping himself. _Kurt, come on, you have more control over yourself than that._

He blinked hard, but the dry need at the back of his throat didn't go away. Blaine's fingers kept up their tickling patterns on his skin. Kurt realized suddenly that his cardigan had been taken off, and the sleeves of his shirt had been unbuttoned and rolled up, almost to the point of being shortsleeves.

It was starting to feel like he had woken up in the middle of a movie and had missed too much of the beginning to make sense of the conclusion. Blaine cupped his neck, right underneath his ear, his thumb stroking Kurt's cheek. There was nothing accompanying the gesture, not like before, when some kind of _calm_ or _happy_ floated into his system. Blaine wasn't trying to change his mood, he was just—_soaking_ him in magic. The longer they lay there, the sharper Kurt's senses became—the healthier he started to feel—but still at the back of his mind a voice insisted something was wrong. That glint in Blaine's eye. Something.

_What was going on?_

"Back when Magic was a common folk… before magicians really began to learn how to command us… there were these people." Blaine gently brushed a stray hair out of Kurt's eyes and Kurt's lips parted at the sudden swell of feeling that accompanied the gesture. "They were called Fascinators," Blaine continued, speaking in that soft voice of his; a voice that suddenly sounded so much more private and intimate to Kurt's ears than it had ever sounded before. "A Magic person would be drawn to them, inexorably. He wouldn't know why, but whenever a Fascinator was nearby… he wouldn't be able to look away." Blaine's eyes, amber and glinting, stayed steadfastly locked on his own. "And when he found that one that affected him like no other… It's where the folk tale of a soul mate comes from." The pads of warm fingers trailed oh-so-gently down his neck. Kurt gasped as yearning _stretched _inside of him.

"My grandmother was a Fascinator. Her husband was Magic." Blaine's hands explored his body with focused precision, still flooding magic into his skin with every caress, and _god, god, god_… "My parents tell me they were soul mates." Kurt's figure was a continual shudder as a hunger swelled inside of him, a _need _so familiar and _right_ and yet _wrong_…

A whimper escaped him as Blaine continued to break him down with his fingers. He realized Blaine hadn't stopped quietly smiling since he'd woken up.

Blaine moved close, his lips brushing against Kurt's with every word he spoke: "It's okay. You can let go."

Kurt shook his head, face crumpling against the tidal wave of aching inside. Blaine's eyes stayed locked on his.

"Let go."

Arms wrapped around his waist, his back. Pulling him close—and all Kurt wanted to do was give in to that need clinging like vines inside of him, but he couldn't. He couldn't. Because something was _wrong_, _something was wrong_ and Blaine wasn't telling him what it was.

Blaine brushed his lips against Kurt's in an almost-kiss. "This is who you are," his whispers slipped inside of Kurt's mouth. "There's nothing wrong with you."

Kurt closed his eyes against a sudden shock of tears. A weight lifted itself from his chest and Kurt breathed out in surprise at his reaction. He hadn't known how badly he needed to hear those words. He had thought he was past all that.

"Stop fighting yourself and just let yourself _be_, Kurt."

His muscles tensed.

"Please."

Blaine was quietly beseeching.

"You're beautiful."

Blaine kissed him.

It might have been the 'please'. The word 'beautiful'. The fact that a boy he cared for so much was telling him not to be scared of himself. _(the word 'soul mate' floating tantalizingly in his mind's eye, with trailing strings of love and trust and forever following its afterimage like ghostly petals)_ He sighed out harshly into the kiss.

And let go.

The thirst at the back of his throat pressed his tongue into Blaine's mouth as he took control of their interlocked mouths, the hunger in his bones took hold of Blaine's arms and pressed him onto his back, pushing him hard into the bed as something wild took him over. One of them made a noise at the back of his throat, maybe of triumph, and Blaine's hand came up to claw into his hair as they moved in tandem, Blaine anticipating every feeling Kurt felt, listening as—

"You took down your walls," Kurt realized, gasping into Blaine's mouth. Blaine nodded, moving to capture Kurt's lips again. Kurt hummed into the kiss in appreciation before pulling away once more, trying to think through the cloud of need in his brain. "Why?"

"Because I can't keep fighting what you mean to me," Blaine said fiercely, his smile gone from his face. Kurt felt his body sparking with electricity, golden thread of magic, and he ran his hands down Blaine's back, captured by that fiery, amber gaze.

"Oh," he panted. His fingers slipped underneath Blaine's shirt, touching warmed, tanned skin. "Why can't I hear you?"

"You don't need to anymore." Blaine groaned as Kurt's hands moved around his waist, his hips bucking as they dipped down into the waistband of his pants before changing direction and feeling their way up his stomach. "You already have me." That didn't make sense to Kurt, but he didn't have time to think about it as he pushed up the shirt beneath him and sucked at the vein pumping at Blaine's collarbone.

It was _hot—_the room was a desert and he was thirsty, so thirsty, but every time he brought his mouth to Blaine's it was like he was swallowing cool water in an oasis, and the more skin he touched the more contact he craved and oh he was so _thirsty_—

Blaine keened and dug his fingers painfully into Kurt's side and Kurt's hand swept up his chest and over his shoulders, the skin beneath his palms starting to sweat as he slid them down Blaine's arms and pressed the muscles down into the bed. Blaine let go of him and their fingers tangled together as Kurt pressed their interlocked hands into the mattress but he had to untangle them and run his palms back down those arms, that chest, that stomach and Blaine was so hot underneath him, his skin glowing and almost scalding to touch but Kurt needed he was so thirsty he _needed_, touch, taste, take, _feel,_ up the stomach and past the ribs and over the shoulders and down the arms and up the stomach, past the ribs, over the shoulders, down the—_**NO!**_

Kurt gasped as he tore away, staring down at Blaine as horror burned an acid hole into his stomach, chilling the arid desert of the room into a polar icecap. _Someone's scream ripped out of his throat as the boy beneath him broke and the fire flooded into him_—

—_up the stomach, past the ribs, over the shoulders, down the arms_—

—_hands clasped tightly in grips of marble_—

—_Blaine beneath him, Blaine dead, on the ground, unmoving_—

"No. No. No," Kurt shook his head, backing away off of the bed and across the room, unable to take his eyes away from Blaine on the bed _(Blaine dead on the ground)_. "No, it was just a dream, it was—"

Blaine watched him carefully, slowly propping himself up on his elbows.

Kurt breathed icicle-air. No.

"What happened to your grandfather?" he rasped over the sheet of silence covering the room. Blaine looked at him, uncomprehending. "Your grandmother's husband," Kurt clarified, feeling his heart sinking into the floor. "He was Magic." Blaine's expression flickered in recognition. "You never met him. Did you? You never knew him. You never called him your grandfather, because he died." Kurt swallowed against the words choking in his throat. "Your grandmother killed him."

Blaine looked at him, his expression unreadable. "Yes," he said softly.

Kurt couldn't breathe.

"There's no such thing as soul mates," he said thickly as a slow river of tears ran down his cheeks. "That's why you called it a folk tale. Because there's no such thing, because the soul mates of the people with Magic _killed them_. That's what a Fascinator does. He kills them."

Blaine's eyes radiated sympathy, and Kurt realized what that glint in his eyes earlier had been: resolve. He had known it, it had felt so wrong and he had _known it_.

"How can you be so calm about this?" he whispered. "I was killing you. I was—just now, I was—" The ghost of that skin, growing hotter and more searing at his every touch, shuddered down his body. Blaine was shaking his head ardently, and Kurt finally noticed how pale and sweat-soaked he looked, his eyes glowing unnaturally with fever.

"It's okay," Blaine was saying, "Kurt, please," and he reached for Kurt's arm and Kurt jerked back, eyes wide as betrayal slicked down his throat.

"_How can it be okay?_" he cried. "I was _killing _you!You were letting me _kill you_, Blaine!"

"Please—"

"Were you going to tell me? Or was I just going to kill you and wake up in the morning with a dead body in my bed?"

"Kurt, please, listen—"

"Oh my god," Kurt couldn't listen, not right now, it was too—this was too—he had just oh _god oh god oh god no no no_—

"Listen to me, this is good, this is okay" Blaine was saying, voice intense and fast and _fevered, god, did he even know what he was saying, could he hear himself right now? _"I've dreamt of my own death for the past three years, Kurt, it's okay, this is supposed to happen, it's good!"

"How?" Kurt asked weakly, curling in on himself as his body began to ache, his head began to hurt. Blaine's hands stroked his arms—sure, calming, soothing hands, chasing away the pain, pouring magic into him and—_no._ Kurt tore away and his back slammed against the wall as that thirst, that need for _more, _filled him.

The magic. It was the magic that was doing this.

"Don't touch me," he warned.

"This is who you are," Blaine said fiercely. "This is what you have to do, Kurt, to survive. It's _okay._"

"You keep saying that, and I don't understand!" Kurt glared through his tears. "Just explain to me, _how _is it okay?"

"I'm supposed to die," Blaine held his hands up in an attempt to calm Kurt down (it didn't work). "I've known that ever since I was taken to Dalton. Those dreams kept coming to me, every night, and I knew there was a Fascinator out there for me just like there was for my grandfather. But I thought it was Andrew, Kurt—I thought Andrew was supposed to kill me. But it's not him. It's you!" Blaine smiled so beautifully that Kurt couldn't look. This was making him sick. "If it had to be someone, of all people, it's you. Kurt, please understand, if it was anyone but you I would be fighting so hard. But it's okay, because it's _you_."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

"I've come to terms with it already," Blaine insisted earnestly. "If I had to give my life to someone, it would be you, anyway. It's okay."

"Stop it," Kurt spit out.

"It's okay, Kurt."

"Stop it! Stop saying that!" Kurt pushed himself off of the wall, moving somewhere, anywhere, away from Blaine. "It's not okay, Blaine, I'm not going _kill you_ just because you say it's okay!"

"It's who you are—"

"Stop _saying _that!" Kurt shouted. "God, can you even hear what's coming out of your mouth? Don't come near me!" he held out an arm in warning as Blaine moved to follow him. "I won't let you use me to commit suicide out of some misplaced feelings of martyrdom!"

"It's not suicide," Blaine insisted. "It's an inevitability. Fate."

Kurt stared at the stranger who used to be his boyfriend, wondering how everything had gotten so twisted.

"Is this what they did to you?" he asked, voice hushed with realization. "They brainwashed you into thinking you're fated to die?"

"This has nothing to do with Dalton," Blaine said lowly.

"I'm not going to kill you!"

"You have to!" Blaine suddenly growled. "My grandmother was a Fascinator, and she killed my grandfather because it was _who she was_. Because she couldn't _not_!"

Kurt's head throbbed and his stomach plunged. He wrapped his arms around his abdomen, gasping as it felt like all his health was draining away from him. "This isn't who I am. This isn't who _you _are, Blaine, are you listening to yourself? You wouldn't just give in like this! You wouldn't just give up!"

"I'm not giving up. I'm choosing to make it easier for you. Fighting against this will only hurt you!"

Kurt shook his head violently, stumbling toward the door. Blaine followed, and suddenly he right behind him. Kurt spun around, heart leaping in his throat as Blaine grabbed his arms and captured his gaze with burning amber eyes and—

"I'm sorry," he said, "but you need to understand."

And suddenly Kurt was choking on a flood of emotion and he tumbled down into those eyes, falling into eternity and feeling, _feeling—_

A jumbling rush of terror; worry; alarm. Something ancient, and forever, and wise. Inevitability; care; anticipation, and pain, and concern and determination and certainty, fear, hope relief _careloveandlove and love, and love, and love_, overwhelming and drowning him and wild and wonderful and so, so painful, and _love…_

Kurt breathed in and suddenly realized he was in his own body again. And the boy in front of him, watching him with apprehension in his magic-reflected eyes… was in love. With him.

The tears dried on his cheeks as Kurt realized what he had to do.

"Do you understand now?" Blaine whispered. Kurt licked his lips unconsciously, nodding slowly. He reached to cup Blaine's cheek.

"Yes," he breathed. Then, stealing himself, he leaned in.

And kissed him.

Kurt fought against the part of himself tugging for more, trying to ride it out as fire poured down his throat and into his veins.

Magic.

He concentrated.

Suddenly, Blaine arched against him and cried out in pain. Kurt bit down on his own tongue to stop his need from controlling him as his own lips blistered at Blaine's touch. Blaine jerked away, a hand coming up to cover his mouth and his wide eyes screaming betrayal.

_(Welcome to the club, Kurt thought bitterly)_

"What did you just do?" Blaine gasped. His lips looked raw and burnt, and his eyes for the first time that day were their normal, melted honey.

"I'm not going to kill you," Kurt said evenly. "If that means preventing us from touching, then so be it."

"No," Blaine suddenly snapped. "_No, _don't do this!" He moved to grab him, but hissed and pulled back as his fingers touched Kurt's skin. Kurt flinched at the spike of pain. "You can't do this!"

"I just did." Kurt moved as Blaine sped towards him too-fast, running and slamming the door shut in between them. Blaine hit it with a thud.

"_You can't do this!"_

Kurt breathed hard as he locked the door and backed away, trying to remember how to move. His head felt like it was splitting open.

"You've already been exposed to too much magic. If you don't let this happen, your body could shut down!" Blaine pounded on the door. "Kurt, _please!_"

"I'll take my chances!" he called savagely. His back hit the wall of the hallway and he slid across it, leaning heavily as he tried to make his way to the stairs.

"I can feel you! You're already starting to go into withdrawal—the headache, the aching in your limbs? It's only going to get worse! Don't do this to yourself!"

He climbed down the stairs, clinging to the railing as his knees shot dull knives up his legs.

"Kurt, _please!_" Blaine's voice cracked. "It could kill you!"

"I don't care!" Kurt shouted, even as the words sliced into his chest. He didn't want to die.

But he didn't want to kill anyone, either. He _couldn't _kill anyone. Not Blaine.

"I can't let you do this!"

"_Deal with it!_" he growled as he reached the end of the stairs. He breathed in against the pain as he checked the time: _9:14_. He could spend the day in school, away from Blaine, from temptation. _(Oh god, the fact that it was a temptation—he couldn't, not with Blaine. Not with anybody, but never with Blaine.)_

Kurt stumbled as _desperation_ flooded into his head, catching himself on the countertop. _Blaine's _desperation. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision and his mind. _That bastard._

Grabbing the keys, he pushed himself toward the door, storming outside and slamming it shut with as much force as he could muster so Blaine would feel it shake the house. It wasn't happening. If he had to lock himself away at public school all day every day, he would _not. Let it. Happen_. Blaine was not going to die. Kurt was not going to be the one to kill him. And a day apart would convince Blaine of that—would take the edge off of the hunger gnawing at Kurt's insides, remind Blaine that whatever Dalton had taught him was screwed up, wrong, insane. This was not going to happen. No one was going to die.

He parked in the lot at school and turned off the car, leaned his head against the steering wheel and shivering in the cold as the heating cut off. He had forgotten to take a coat.

Kurt ground his teeth against the pain behind his eyes. _Just a migraine._

He wasn't going to die from a migraine.

_No one_ was going to die. Kurt wouldn't let them.


	23. Aphephobia: Part One

**Chapter Summary: Kurt tries to deal with everything. It goes about as well as you expect.**

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><p><strong>AN:** This chapter took so long, goodness me. It's a doozy. I hope you don't all murder me when you read it! As always, thank you all for sticking with me and being incredible people. I'll try to respond to your comments over the weekend. I love you all. Enjoy! *goes to hide*

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><p><em>"You won't hurt him?"<em>

_"No. I'm going to set him free."_

_"…What do you mean by that?"_

_—-_

Lips moved up his chest and his ribs expanded at their touch, taking in air as if enchanted. Fingers trailing warm magic into his skin made their slow way down his arms, his stomach. _Kurt_, the body above him whispered. _Let me help you, Kurt. Let me save you._

His breath shuddered as his body stretched in yearning. _Yes, please…_

_Kurt, _Blaine said, soothing the bristling of his skin with soft, sure touches. _Kurt. _

He was red with raw blisters, burning hot with thirst. He needed.

_Kurt…._

He _needed_.

"—urt!"

Kurt jerked in his seat, glancing around the classroom. Right. Study hall. That was… he swallowed heavily, glancing at Tina's frown next to him before blinking up at Mr. Schue's worried face.

"Are you all right?"

His mouth opened to say something, but nothing came out. His throat was dry. It was really… it was really hot.

"I think he has a fever, Mr. Schue."

"Tina, help him to the nurse."

"No," someone found his voice and was using it for him. Kurt thanked whoever was in control of his mouth for the intervention. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine, Kurt," Tina said quietly next to him, grabbing his wrist and holding it up. "You're shaking."

Kurt watched the tremors wracking his hand in surprise. He clenched his fingers into a fist to try to stop them, pulling his arm away from Tina. "I'm fine," he repeated.

Mr. Schue had a hand on his back, and suddenly he was standing up, and Tina was walking him out the door. "No…" Kurt said, tongue tripping over the word, and yet still they continued walking.

"You can stay there for the period if you want," Schue said as they left. "Try to get him to lie down." And Tina nodded like that was good advice, but it really wasn't, and Kurt couldn't understand why they didn't see that.

"No," he said firmly, even as he was dragged down the hallway. Going to the nurse would mean going home, and he couldn't go home, not when Blaine was still there. He couldn't. All he wanted to do was _sit down_, was that too much to ask? They had only made it halfway down the hallway when Kurt finally managed to figure out how his body worked.

"No, Tina—_no_," he pulled out of her grasp, falling against the brick of the hallway to keep himself upright. Tina moved to grab him again, and he jerked away. "I'm fine, let me go."

"You're _sick_, Kurt!" Tina insisted, worry and confusion in her eyes. Kurt shook his head, looking desperately around the hallway.

"I'm fine," he said again, mind empty of the words he needed. "I can't go to the nurse, I can't go home. I'll be fine, just let me… I have medicine I can take in my bag, for headaches, I can take that." Tina looked at him dubiously. He summoned all his mental energy to search for some semblance of normalcy in his brain. "Tina, I promise, I'm fine. If I was really sick, I wouldn't be able to talk to you like this, right?"

She wavered. "You're really hot, though…"

"I know," Kurt nodded seriously. "It's a wonder the boys can keep their hands off me."

That did it. She smiled, her face settling into something closer to relief, though still tinged with worry.

"Here," Kurt said, holding out his hand. "Give me the slip. I'll go lie down in the choir room, and if I feel worse, _then_ I'll go to the nurse." She hesitated. "I promise," he added.

Tina let out a sigh, searching him suspiciously. Kurt pressed hard against the wall to keep himself upright.

Finally, she nodded. "Okay," she said slowly, "but I better not hear from Mike that you showed up for gym class."

Kurt let out a small noise of disbelief at the thought of attending gym class in the state he was in. That seemed to be the right move, because Tina gave him another small smile before handing over the nurse's slip.

"Text me if you need someone," she said. Kurt nodded, thankful that it was Tina and not Mercedes or Rachel that shared study hall with him. She knew when to back off.

A few seconds later, and she was gone. Kurt let himself lean against the wall, turning his head to feel the cool brick against his forehead. Hot. He felt hot. Tina was right about that.

He should go to the choir room.

His phone vibrated in his pocket as he stood leaning against the wall, and he took it out without thinking, blinking blankly at the message on his screen.

_'Someone's looking for you_.'

It was from Mercedes.

Kurt stared, waiting for his mind to process the text. Someone…

He put his phone away.

_…Where was he going again?_

Right. Choir room. Go to the choir room.

He started moving in what he hoped was the right direction, too focused on putting one foot in front of the other to orient himself. His shoulder dragged against the brick wall as he pressed against it. He was probably ruining his shirt.

_Kurt…_ Blaine whispered in his ear.

He shivered, leaning his forehead into the cool hand feeling his temperature. Caressing his hair back from his face.

_Kurt, please, don't do this to yourself. Let me help._

His mouth opened as hands rubbed his back, pulled him into a hug. It was too hot for hugs. It was…

Blaine pressed his lips to Kurt's temple.

Safe. He was safe with him. He was safe.

There was a way out of this, Kurt knew, his mind told him, there was a way out. Everything would be okay. They could be together again, and everything would be—

"You okay?"

Kurt snapped open eyes he didn't remember closing, turning his head towards the voice that had interrupted his thoughts (_hallucinations. He was having hallucinations. That was a brick wall, not a hand_). "…Karofsky?" he said slowly, finally registering the boy in front of him. _(It wasn't real.)_

Karofsky watched him with a furrowed brow, standing outside an empty classroom. _Wait, wasn't he headed to the choir room?_

"Are you okay?" David Karofsky repeated."You need to go to the nurse?"

Kurt looked at him. He was leaning up against the door, casually. He looked like he was waiting for someone.

_You need to go to the nurse?_

Kurt blinked and shook his head, belatedly. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Are you waiting for Blaine?"

Karofsky shifted self-consciously, scowling a little.

"Why are you waiting for Blaine?" Kurt pressed. _This was important_, he thought, _this was important information_. He didn't know why. Someone was looking for him.

"Have you seen him?" Karofsky asked, avoiding the question.

Kurt studied his face: it was hopeful, waiting, peppered with something scared and worried around the eyes.

A feeling he couldn't name gripped his heart. It tasted numb.

"No," he told the face. "He's not coming today."

The face fell, and then scrunched itself closed. Kurt watched intently as Karofsky started to walk away.

"He's not ever coming back," he said, and Karosky stopped.

Turned.

"He's not ever coming back," Kurt repeated. "You won't see him again. He's gone."

Karofsky was still.

Then: "Whatever," he muttered sullenly. Kurt's eyes followed him as he walked away.

His pocket buzzed.

_'Where are you? I think this has something to do with Blaine.'_

Blaine.

His head was pounding. He felt sick.

There was a bathroom a few feet away. Kurt tripped over his feet, shouldering his way into it.

_Blaine…_

His arms shook as he stumbled past a girl on her way out. Oh. Girl's bathroom. Oh well. It's not like anyone would be inside right now.

What period was it—had the bell rung yet?

He felt so hot, like he'd been shoved into an oven twenty minutes ago. Where was the fire? Somebody had texted him something. Someone was looking for him. Text me if you need someone. I think this has something to do with Blaine.

His hand reached for his pocket because he needed someone, but he couldn't—he couldn't _think _and—

He felt sick, he felt so sick, he wanted to go home. He wanted his dad. He wanted—

Blaine. I think this _has something to do with Blaine._

He fell against the sink, and sweat, _or was it water?_ Dripping down his neck—he was so _hot, _he was so _thirsty—_

He—

What was he—

Why was he…

_Something to do with Blaine._

_Kurt._

_Please._

_Just—_

_Let me help you._

Fingers tangled themselves in his hair, lightly scratching his scalp. A small noise sounded at the back of his throat as soothing cool flowed down his head like a cracked egg. There was a light, uncomfortable buzzing accompanying the pads of the fingers; his headache. His hands curled around the sink as his body began to prickle. _(Hallucinations. This isn't real.) _Kurt's lips parted as the fingers caressed his skull, a soft moan escaping him.

"Shh."

His eyes shocked open at the sound, staring into the reflected image watching him. "Blaine!" he breathed. His limbs trembled as he tried to move them, but a hand briefly but firmly held him steady. Blaine's face was screwed up in concentration, tiny lines of pain wrinkling his brow.

"Hold on," he said softly, nails still gently massaging Kurt's skull (that buzzing wasn't his headache, it was the pain he'd laced into Blaine's touch. Blaine was just pouring in comfort to offset the sting. This was real, this was—) "I won't let it go too far. Trust me."

Kurt had a hard time trusting him when he had apparently been planning to involve Kurt in an assisted suicide without Kurt's knowledge, but…

He was thinking, he could _think _again, oh god… but his body was shutting down, and wasn't responding to his commands to move_. _And even if he had the physical capacity to do so… God, he couldn't make himself, he _needed, needed, needed…_

His eyes rolled up into his head as the magic washed out his body, clinging to the blisters inside of him and healing them over. His blood was rushing fast, and it felt like all his pain was evaporating away—the room spun. He collapsed, his knees giving out, and Blaine's arm grabbed his waist to catch him, seemingly automatically, before it recoiled away. "Hey, hey, hey!" Blaine grabbed his arms and shoulders in quick, flinching movements in an attempt to keep him upright. "Hey, come on. Hold on. Hold on, give it a few more seconds, just hold on, Kurt!"

Kurt gasped out a breath as his muscles began to work, his brain to awaken. He gripped the sink, using it to lever himself up into a standing position. A few more seconds, and he started to feel superhuman—his sight, hearing, feeling, all hyper-sharp as his body started to sing with greed.

Oh.

_Oh—Blaine._

He let go of the sink.

"Are you good?" Blaine asked, breathlessness dancing on the edges of his words. Kurt nodded, and turned to look at him.

Blaine's eyes were over-bright as they stared at each other for minutes too long. Kurt's muscles wound themselves taut as his eyes were drawn unalterably to pink lips. Blaine stepped forward, and someone leaned in—

Kurt hissed as his scalp finally registered the sting, and the boy in front of him closed his eyes. Blaine's fingers extracted themselves from Kurt's hair carefully. His hand shook in the corner of Kurt's eye as it fell to his side, the fingertips an angry, wounded red.

Neither of them stepped back.

"You can't let yourself go that far again," Blaine said, voice quiet. "I don't think you'll be able to come back next time."

Kurt swallowed heavily at the connotation, although secretly he agreed. Those last few moments before Blaine touched him…

Was he in the girl's bathroom? …_What?_

He stepped away.

"You're here," he said, moving to grab a paper towel. Blaine sent him a wry half-smile.

"You think I don't know how to pick a lock?" he teased. "Your vanity is covered with bobby pins."

Kurt held the paper under the tap, fighting the tickle of amusement that crawled over his cheeks. "You mean you found the key in my desk drawer and used it, because despite some questionable architectural choices that led to its placement, the door is easily unlocked from the inside."

Blaine smiled, glowing with warmth. Kurt let his eyes travel softly over his face, feeling a quick barb of longing. _This boy was in love with him._

Silently, he handed over the cold, wet paper towel. Blaine grabbed it carefully, looking puzzled.

"For your fingers," Kurt gestured weakly.

"Oh." Blaine applied it to his hand carefully. Even though it was no longer red, Kurt knew it was probably still stinging. The skin of his head felt like it was burning right now.

_… "If that means preventing us from touching, then so be it"…_

He watched as Blaine pressed the towel gingerly against his fingers, and an image swam to the front of his mind of himself holding Blaine's wrist, soothing the sting in his boyfriend's fingers with his own hands. Blaine would smile, and let him, even though he could do it just as easily himself, and the air would grow rosy with feeling. Maybe he'd kiss each one, as Blaine stood quietly watching, pouring all his love into each finger. And he'd straighten up, and ask _feel better? _and Blaine would laugh and kiss him and say _much. _

Kurt felt an immeasurable well of sadness rise in him, clogging his throat.

"I hate this," he whispered. Blaine's head was ducked down, his face shadowed and hands stilled in their movement.

"…I'm sorry," he said.

"I don't want you to die."

Blaine head snapped up, his eyes water-colored and passionate. "I don't want _you _to die! Kurt–!"

A raging fire swept through him, suddenly, a thunderstorm of anger that cut Blaine off mid-sentence from the force of it. Kurt slammed his hands against the wall, needing to lash out against _something_, because it was all so hopeless and it _couldn't be_. It couldn't!

"_Why do I have to?_" His voice bounced against the walls of the bathroom as he whirled on Blaine, spurned on by the ferociousness in his chest. "What happens, Blaine, what is _happening_ to me?"

Blaine stared at him with wide, shocked eyes. "You're—you're going through withdrawal," he stumbled out. "The magic, it's, it's like a drug, and your body can't function without—"

"So why can't we fix it?" Kurt demanded. "Isn't there some kind of magic rehab?"

Blaine let out a quick, breathy laugh that was made of nothing happy. "It doesn't work like that."

There was resignation coated thickly on those words, and Kurt hated it.

"Why?" His head began to prickle uncomfortably. _Withdrawal._ So soon, and already it was coming back. He felt it draining him, latching on and pulling until it left him with nothing but nets of unshed tears. They couldn't, he couldn't. There had to be a way. There wasn't, but there _had to be_—Kurt couldn't do this, be this, hear this. No.

No.

Blaine's eyes glistened.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "If I had known before, I would have never…" he trailed off. Kurt brought the heels of his palms up, pushing back against the press of tears. "I don't know how else to fix this."

_Killing you isn't fixing anything, _Kurt wanted to say.

He sunk to the ground, too tired to keep standing.

"How does it work?" his voice was rough with tears.

He felt Blaine sit down next to him.

"When I touch you," came the gentle words. "Sometimes, when I feel something particularly strongly, or when I'm overwhelmed, I bleed out the excess emotion through magic. You've felt it."

_…As if unaware of itself, a tanned hand absent-mindedly reached for Kurt's arm and traced comfort into his veins…_

_…bursts of pleasure were racing up Kurt's back from Blaine's fingers, magic that he couldn't stop, he didn't initiate, that sometimes scared him, and Kurt could see it, could see how it made him fist his hands in weak prevention before want spasmed them flat out against Kurt's skin again…_

Kurt breathed out slowly. "And then?" he asked.

"And with most people, that's it. It doesn't happen too often, and the magic washes through their system and evaporates. But with a Fascinator… with _you_…"

_…"It's different with you," Blaine admitted… _

"You absorb it, and it becomes a part of you. The more magic you're exposed to, the more your system holds onto." Kurt brought down his hands, staring into the empty bathroom in front of them. "…And I'm overwhelmed very often when I'm with you," Blaine admitted softly. "So you're exposed to a lot of magic."

Kurt was having trouble processing things. Blaine's voice echoed through his head, a merry-go-round of repeated phrases that he had noticed in the past and yet chosen to pay no attention to.

_You feel things very deeply._

_I don't think you believe anyone can hear you, but you're the clearest thing I've been able to hear since I got here._

A Blaine from long ago, repeating non-answers, avoiding his questions.

_I think you underestimate how powerful that is._

"How long have you known?" he asked. From the minute they met, Blaine had looked at him differently. Like he was the only one in the room. Had he known this entire time? It colored the whole past month in a harsher light, turning their moments into foreign photocopies of memories he thought he knew.

Blaine shifted closer, obviously feeling his discontent. Too close, because they could touch with the slightest movement.

Too far, because they weren't touching.

"Do you remember the time I told you about Rachel, and who she reminds me of?" Blaine began. Kurt nodded without looking at him. "I had suspicions before but… that day was the first time I actually thought, _oh, it's him_. I wasn't positive. But it crossed my mind."

He remembered their almost-kiss, and Blaine's spike of panic. At the time, his only thought was for their getting together. He had been convinced Blaine was playing with his feelings. Leading him on.

If only that was all they had to deal with.

"That's when I started hearing you," Kurt stated numbly. Blaine hummed beside him. "What does that mean?" he turned to look at his boyfriend, needing something—answers—comfort…

His nose was inches from Blaine's cheek and Kurt shivered at the knowledge of how close they were.

Blaine shook his head. "I don't know. My grandmother died before I knew anything about what a Fascinator was. I learned everything I know from Dalton."

They were too close. Kurt studied the planes of Blaine's face. His cheekbones. Nose. Lips.

The itching started up again, vague and inconstant, riding up and down his veins. He didn't understand how he could want this so much when he knew it led to something horrifying.

…_Wait._

"When you said you'd come to terms with it," Kurt realized slowly, horror filling slick up his stomach. "You meant… that day, when you taught me how to use magic. That was…" _the day you resigned yourself to death._

Blaine turned to look at him, and his gaze was so tender and intense Kurt couldn't look away. "I spent days surrounded by you—your emotions, your hopes, your fears. Your most vulnerable moments, in my head, underneath my skin… I couldn't escape it. How could I let you wither away after feeling _that_?"

No.

No. No, stop, _no_.

The horror sloshed over his stomach and sped up his throat. No, he was going to be sick—

He swallowed back a sob and stood up, running to the sink.

"Kurt!"

He covered his mouth his hand, forcing it back.

"Kurt, what—?"

"I was so happy," he choked out. "That day, I was so happy, but it was lies, all of it."

"What?" Blaine rose from the floor.

"You looked at me like I was special," he leaned over the sink as a wave of nausea rose up inside of him. "Touched me like… and it was all lies!"

"No," Blaine said earnestly. "Nothing was a lie!"

"We're boyfriends because it's convenient, because—"

"We're _soul mates_, Kurt—"

"Just stop!" he cried miserably.

"Kurt, god, I love you so much—"

"Because you have to!" Kurt spun to face him, angry and desperate. "In order to sacrifice yourself to me, in order to—you've put me on this pedestal or something so that you can die happily—"

"That's not true!"

"Like I'm some god that deserves life more than you do—"

"Why are you doing this?" Blaine's tears tracked wide and wet down his cheeks. "Why are you making this so hard?"

"Because it should be hard!" he cried. "I can't—we _can't_, you _can't_ make it easy, Blaine, you _can't!_"

Water raced in rivers down Blaine's face even as he made no sound, the echo of Kurt's words clogging the air like smoke.

"I don't know what to do," he mouthed, voice not more than air. "What do you want me to do?"

They were stuck, held still and frozen in a mold of amber—fossilized like Blaine's eyes, like the trapped eternity hidden inside of him, vats of liquid emotion, and it all had to add up somehow—there had to be a reason, a way out, _somehow_, Kurt just wasn't _seeing_ it!

He opened his mouth—to say what, he didn't know—

Then he heard it:

"_**Where are you?**_"

Breath escaped him as he snapped his head around, eyes scouring the rest of the room behind him to find where the voice had come from.

_Someone is looking for you._

"Did you hear that?" he asked carefully.

Blaine watched him with concern, tears slowing and brow furrowed. "What? Hear what?"

"I heard someone—"

There it was again! A hoarse echo of a voice, repeating syllables in his mind before forming itself into soft, ghostly words: "_**Come find me.**_" Kurt looked back toward the door. Where was it coming from? _Find you where?_

"Kurt…" He looked back at Blaine, who was inching carefully toward him, features shifting toward shocked fascination. "Your eyes…"

Kurt looked toward the mirror, and his lips parted in surprise at the pale white-grey that had taken the place of his usually-saturated irises. His chest dropped low and caved in as he stared at the alien change, fear rapidly climbing up his—

"_**Talk to me.**_"

Kurt gasped in a breath and snapped his head toward the door.

There was something…

_Someone is looking for you._

He walked slowly over and opened the door, not fully aware of moving his legs. The warmth of another body at his back told him Blaine was following, but things weren't quite registering the way they had before. He felt like he had been placed behind a plastic film, watching the world through clear, blue-tinged sheeting.

"_**Come on, I want to talk to you.**_"

He was halfway down the hallway before he noticed he was moving, heading toward… the choir room?

Hadn't he been heading there earlier?

He reached for the doorknob without thinking, hands closing around—

Someone suddenly _seized_ his arm and Kurt's body jolted with adrenaline. He tore himself away, belatedly registering the pain, and turned in surprise to see Blaine—who was as far back as he could possibly be while still staying within reach, unnaturally still and looking like he was watching a ghost.

"Don't," he whispered, eyes wide with fear and stuck on the choir room door. "No. We have to go home. Now."

"What is it?" Kurt asked.

"_**Come talk to me**_."

Kurt's attention was drawn inexorably back to the choir room, his mind emptying. _Come talk…_–

Another sting, this time as Blaine jerked him backward, taking several steps before Kurt flinched his forearm away. "_What?_" he snapped (had he asked that before?). Worry gnawed at his stomach as he noticed Blaine's expression: he looked terrified.

"We can't go in there, Kurt. We have to leave. _Please_."

Kurt swallowed heavily, studying the face in front of him. Slowly, he nodded. "Okay," he said, pacifying. "Okay, we'll go h—"

They both spun to face the door as it swung open. It revealed a young man, tall and attractive.

"Told you they were here!" the boy called to some unknown audience, a wide smile gracing his features. Kurt's eyebrows drew down. "Sorry if you're a little muddled," he continued, speaking to Kurt now, "it's just that I'd been told you'd be in this room, and when you weren't here, I got a little impatient."

Blaine had stopped breathing beside him, and Kurt glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, wary.

"You're just fascinating, aren't you?" came the boy's voice, made soft with awe and something that sounded like jealousy. Kurt's eyes snapped back to the boy at the phrasing, a little disconcerted to find intense brown eyes scrutinizing him.

"Who are you?" he asked warily.

The boy's grin was feral.

"I had assumed Blaine would have told you about me." Kurt's eyes narrowed. He sent a quick look to Blaine, a trickle of fear sliding down his throat when he found his boyfriend's expression had shuttered closed—nothing but blankness remained.

"You must be Kurt," the boy at the door held out his hand. Kurt inspected the hand guardedly before bringing his own up. The boys fingers squeezed closed around his in a firm, precise handshake. Their eyes locked and—

Everything inside of him suddenly stilled.

_He knew this boy. _

Those eyes.

That energy.

He knew what this boy was. He was like him—he was a Fascinator. Kurt knew it unquestioningly.

"It's nice to meet you, Kurt," the boy said quietly.

Kurt couldn't move for those eyes.

_He could feel Blaine so clearly next to him, like a gaping wound in his mind…_

"My name is Andrew."


	24. Aphephobia: Part Two

****Chapter Summary: Everything explodes.****

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><p><strong>AN:** Thank you to ancka for the wonderful help. This chapter was really, really hard to write. Um … don't kill me? *ducks*

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><p>"Just stay calm," Blaine whispered fervently by his ear. "If anything happens, just promise me you'll stay calm."<p>

Andrew opened the door wider.

"Let's bring this inside. Quiet, now. Wouldn't want to disturb the school day."

Kurt could only half-concentrate as they were ushered into the room, his mind reeling from the certainty of the boy in front of him: _this was Andrew_. The phantom villain of Blaine's stories of Dalton; that presence he rarely talked about but was always there, looming like a shadow over every conversation, hidden in generalizations and vagaries until Blaine had finally named him one late afternoon on a couch. The enormity of meeting the boy who had had such an influence over Blaine's life was too much to process, what with everything else that Kurt was dealing with.

And he was a _Fascinator_.

Kurt didn't know why that one surprised him; in retrospect, Blaine had as much as told him what Andrew was—hadn't he said he'd been positive Andrew was going to be the one to kill him? So Andrew must have been a Fascinator. It was stupid; he should accept the fact and move on, but Kurt couldn't get past it.

He felt like he had been tainted because of the fact of this boy's existence, and it was _stupid_, but Andrew was a Fascinator. Like Kurt. He felt something squeeze around his heart.

There were a group of boys in the choir room, all dressed in the same uniform Andrew was wearing—the same outfit Kurt had found Blaine in the night he'd appeared in the backyard—and Kurt would have taken a closer look at them but he couldn't stop his eyes from dragging back to look at Andrew every time he looked away.

There was something magnetic about him. Kurt could see why Blaine had been drawn to him.

"You were in my head," the words exited his mouth before he thought to give them leave.

Andrew's mouth twisted upward in amusement. "Not in your head," he corrected. "In your ear. Blaine's the only one who can get into your head."

Kurt glanced in surprise at Blaine. _What? _Blaine met his eyes briefly before guiltily looking away.

One more thing Blaine had hidden from him. What else hadn't he been told? Kurt closed his eyes against his rising frustration.

_Now was not the time._

"'In my ear,'" Kurt quoted, voice firm. "How?"

Andrew's eyebrows raised. "Magic trick," he grinned.

Kurt gave him a hard look.

"Oh, ouch!" Andrew laughed, looking around at the boys gathered around them and shrugging in good humor. "He's not impressed."

The other boys chuckled and Kurt tensed as he noticed how close they'd gotten. He cursed himself for not paying attention. Somehow, Andrew had ushered them into the middle of the choir room, and a circle of uniformed boys was slowly forming and tightening around them, blocking any way out. He glanced backward out of the corner of his eye at the well-muscled blond boy stepping up behind him. He and Blaine shifted closer together as if on cue, fingers reaching for each other before flinching away at the sting as their skin brushed. Invisible claws raked down the back of Kurt's neck as he looked towards Blaine—whose face remained as closed to him as his emotions. Kurt clenched his jaw and looked away.

A hand wrapped itself carefully around Kurt's, and squeezed. It burned.

Kurt closed his eyes and squeezed back.

"What do you want?" he asked, opening his eyes to look at Andrew. His back prickled from the heat of the threatening body behind him, but Andrew was studying their clasped hands with an expression Kurt couldn't read.

"A month, and you've got him eating out of the palm of your hand," he said wonderingly, raising his eyes to stare intently at Blaine. "Only a month. Bravo." Kurt couldn't tell if Andrew was talking to him or to Blaine, but his skin crawled at the tone nonetheless. Blaine remained stone, face as still as if it were made of marble.

"What do you want?" Kurt asked again.

Andrew's gaze swept slowly down Blaine's body, lingering in ways that made Kurt's shoulders tighten in fierce defensiveness. He glared as Andrew finally looked away from their hands and met his eyes, resisting the irrational urge to growl. Blaine's grip on his hand tightened and trickles of strained emotion flowed up Kurt's arm.

"We want Blaine," Andrew stated finally, and Kurt almost expected a _'duh'_ to follow. Brown eyes flashed in challenge. "He ran away, and we want him back. He belongs with us."

The boys around them shifted a step closer.

Kurt's hand was throbbing, Blaine was holding so tightly, but no words escaped the boy next to him.

"You're not getting him," Kurt declared for him defiantly. "He doesn't want to go back."

"He never should have left," one of the boys spoke up, and several others voiced their angry agreement. Kurt eyes darted around the circle warily, and he stepped closer to Blaine, attempting to block him from view.

"Come on, boys, let's keep this civil," Andrew said loudly over the brewing storm, watching him with those shrewd eyes. "We don't want to frighten the poor kid." The crowd of boys settled down as if commanded. The full power of Andrew's attention focused on Kurt, and Kurt's stomach clenched as the same magnetism of earlier drew him in. "Dalton keeps him safe, Kurt. "

"He's safe here. With me."

"We both know that's not true."

Kurt's heart plunged into his stomach.

No, that was right. Because Blaine was going to dieif he stayed with Kurt.

"What kind of protection can you offer him?" Andrew asked the question that was running through Kurt's mind. "Dalton is the safest place for him."

"He ran away for a reason," Kurt insisted weakly.

"A reason he no doubt told you," Andrew replied, and Kurt stilled. "Because Blaine tells you _everything_, doesn't he?"

Kurt swallowed, glancing back at where he knew Blaine was standing, stoic and giving nothing, as he had remained this entire time. Even the trickle of magic sliding up his arm had nothing recognizable to it. Kurt struggled to stay calm.

Blaine had been hiding things from him; Kurt being a Fascinator, his own eventual death, his apparent ability to get inside Kurt's head _(!)_… He had never told him why he ran away from Dalton. He had never told him _anything_ about what led to his collapse in Kurt's backyard that night.

Kurt didn't know what to think.

He knew Blaine could feel everything he was feeling. His grip on his hand was excruciating… but there was no squeeze of reassurance this time.

And Blaine still refused to open his mouth and speak.

It was hard not to feel abandoned.

"He's told me about you," Kurt clung to the image of the Blaine he knew—of the boy who had lain on the couch with him and murmured dark secrets into his ear. "He's told me what you did to him. What you _all_ did to him," he amended, looking around the circle accusingly. A few in the group shuffled forward threateningly.

Andrew raised an eyebrow. "That so?" he asked, looking curious. "And what did we do to him?"

"You forced him to do things he didn't want to do," Kurt stated. "You _violated_-"

A strong burst of _chaos _exploded up his arm and Kurt's head whipped around to stare in shock at its source. Blaine's eyes were a wide, wild amber, his hand shaking in Kurt's grip and his attention wholly consumed by Andrew.

_-'When I'm overwhelmed, I bleed out the excess emotion through magic.'—_

"Blaine…" Kurt breathed, tightening his hold on his hand even as it scorched his fingers. The heat was agonizing, and Kurt was starting to wonder how much of the pain was from the fact of their touching and how much was Blaine's temperature. All of his color had drained into two high spots on his cheeks, his skin shining with exertion.

"Two Fascinators a bit too much for you, Blaine?" Andrew asked quietly, a complicated interest coloring his expression. Jumbled tangles of emotion were exploding in short intervals up Kurt's arm, thrashing into his veins with a violence that made Kurt flinch. "But then again, it isn't just us, is it? There are twenty other people surrounding you, too. You feel them. Don't you."

They weren't questions. The shaking in Blaine's hand traveled up his arm, into his torso—as Andrew spoke, Blaine's limbs began to shake in small tremors.

Kurt covered their clasped fingers with his other hand. "Blaine, just focus on me, it's okay," he muttered urgently.

"And then there's the school. Every braindead student sitting in class, pretending to take notes; every teacher; nurse; attendant; parent, coming to pick up a kid: you feel that. That's a bit too much. Isn't it."

Blaine was _tense_; every muscle was coiled tight, his tremors turning into huge, full-body shudders. He was breathing too fast. Kurt held on as tightly as he could, trying to be his anchor as floods of emotion, of _magic_, uncontrolled and heady and hungry to the point of being _painful_ were forced into his veins. Blaine's words from what seemed like months ago echoed in his head: _"It was mostly just physical stuff, just doing things. **Sometimes feelings.**"_

Andrew had gotten closer, somehow, at some point, but Kurt couldn't really focus because _fear _and _regret _and _guilt _and _amusement_ were tumbling into him and he couldn't tell which was Blaine and which was him and which was Andrew, or the boys around them, or the people outside of the choir room, continuing on with school like there wasn't anything wrong, and nothing could be processed or thought about, only _felt_ and he tried to swallow down his panic and his fear and his amuse—and his—someone's—Blaine's—he had to let this happen, let Blaine give to him what his body couldn't handle because Kurt could handle it, Kurt had to be his anchor, Kurt couldn't let Andrew—

Andrew hunched over to meet Blaine's eyes, his hand coming up to cradle Blaine's jaw. "You've had worse than this," he murmured, eyes feverish in their intensity. "Stop sabotaging yourself."

Blaine only stared fiercely back.

Andrew's lips moved to his ear.

_…"he didn't even have to concentrate and he could get me to do anything"…_

"Let go of his hand, Blaine," he whispered.

And Blaine let go.

Kurt sagged backwards and the boy behind him caught him before he fell, twisting his arms behind his back and covering his mouth as he tried to call out for Blaine—

He was choking on something, something had been pushed into his mouth by the hand now covering his lips and Kurt tried to spit it out but—

"This isn't what it seems," the boy holding him whispered in his ear. Kurt tried to elbow free, his noises of protest muffled by the hand, but fingers suddenly came up to plug his nose. "Swallow it. Trust me."

Blaine had fallen forward into Andrew, gripping the other boy's forearms so hard his nails broke skin. Kurt's head grew fuzzy as his breath ran out, and he struggled against his captor's arms as Blaine moved with a ferocity Kurt had never before seen in him, violence and desperation thrumming through his muscles, pushing Andrew away—and Andrew matched him, latching on like a leech as Blaine's arms shook, the magic he had been hammering into Kurt now flooding into Andrew's blood and something feral sparked in Blaine's eyes—

Kurt's throat convulsed and the hand moved away. He fell boneless against the body holding him, sucking in _air, finally, _as a thick tar slid down his throat and began to lick down his ribs and over his heart. _What had he just swallowed?_

"That's it!" Andrew was crowing triumphantly. "There you go! You've been silent since I opened the door, beautiful. Why so closed up? Talk to me!"

And words broke open Blaine's mouth: "_You told me to come quietly, you fucking bastard!"_

Shocked laughter exploded out of Andrew as he wrestled to keep Blaine in his grasp.

"I did, didn't I?" Andrew laughed. Blaine did not look amused. "I forgot about that. Sorry!" His tone was playful and boyish in its energy, and Kurt watched, morbidly fascinated, as a genuine smile lit up his face. "What did you want to say, Blaine? Go ahead and say it!" Blaine was electric energy. Andrew let out another laugh. "Man, I _missed_ this!"

"I didn't," Blaine snarled.

The circle of boys had stepped back, giving the two space—from the glances some of them were sharing, the move seemed to be more out of fear than out of politeness. Kurt started to shiver as the itching pain of his headache began to crawl over his scalp, still half in shock from the overpowering outpouring of emotion his body had been subjected to. He felt like he was living in two climates: a numbness was beginning to tingle down his throat and around his heart, spreading viscously over his ribs with the slow progression of whatever oil he had swallowed, while his arms and head and stomach began to burn in saharic heat. He felt lightheaded.

"Where's Erickson?" Blaine sounded panicked.

"Why?" Andrew said, eyes gleaming with interest, "Do you feel him?"

"Yes," Blaine responded immediately, and Kurt knew he wasn't imagining the fear coloring the word. Andrew traded a triumphant look with a brown-haired boy in the circle. "Where is he?"

"Not in the room."

"You can't give me to him." Blaine was frantic, words spilling out of his mouth faster than Kurt could register them. "You can't, you can't—"

"We'll do whatever we want to," Andrew said firmly. "You should have thought of what he'd do to you before you decided to run away."

"_I did_," Blaine said, so fearfully definite that his meaning couldn't be mistaken.

"How did you find us?" Kurt couldn't help but ask, his head beginning to throb. "How did you even know where Blaine was?"

"He led us here."

"How?" Blaine shot back, the word crackling out of his mouth.

"You ripped a doorway into your Fascinator's backyard when you left Dalton," Andrew started, but Blaine was shaking his head.

"No, I closed it," he was distressed, certain, "You can't have found me through that, I'd closed—"

"But not before Flint slipped through," Andrew interrupted.

Blaine stumbled.

"What?" he asked, shock seeping into his voice.

"Yeah: it was Flint who told us where you were. We would've been lost otherwise."

"No," Blaine shook his head, "No, that can't be what—he doesn't—"

"It seems you've lost a few friends since you've left, Blaine."

Arms still shaking, hands in vice grips around Andrew's arms and looking frantically trapped, Blaine whipped his head around the circle of boys, searching for something desperately, his face a mask of disbelief. His gaze alighted briefly on the boy who was holding Kurt—and his amber, magic-soaked eyes widened in comprehension.

_No_, Blaine mouthed. Then again, betrayed: "No!"

It was as if the word had stolen everything that was keeping him upright. He dropped, suddenly, his legs giving out underneath him, and he fell into Andrew—who caught him, holding him up and pulling his back flush against his chest with surprising gentleness. Like a lover.

The numbness had spread to Kurt's stomach, but he still tasted acid in the back of his throat at the image.

"Can't burn it off, can you?" Andrew said, looking at Blaine with unconcealed sympathy. "You need to get used to this again, Blaine. You know what you're going back to."

Blaine was breathing too fast, his movements jerky and uncoordinated as he tried to break away from Andrew's hold. "Where's Erickson?" he demanded.

"I told you. He's not here."

"You're_ lying_."

The numb oil had reached Kurt's head—and he sucked in a breath. His headache, the withdrawal, everything painful suddenly _cut off_.

Blaine's head snapped up to stare at him, look unreadable, as Kurt felt the itching fire inside his veins finally extinguish.

Kurt met his gaze in surprise. His whole body felt numb, and he couldn't think, but… but it didn't _hurt _anymore. How did that… Was it gone? Just like that? _What the hell had he swallowed?_

_This isn't what it seems, the boy had said._

Blaine raised his eyes to look at the boy behind Kurt, expression clouded with incredulity.

"You can't," he said. "You _can't_—he'll die! He's going to die!" He moved toward Kurt, and Andrew tightened his grip, pulling Blaine back against him with a strong arm around his chest. Blaine cried out in protest.

"Hey now! I think we've had enough of you moving, beautiful," Andrew said, tugging him close. Blaine struggled. "Relax," he ordered, his lips next to Blaine's cheek, eyes raking down Kurt from over Blaine's shoulder. Blaine instantly slumped backward, boneless. Only his eyes betrayed his inner energy, burning intensely as they watched Kurt.

"He's going to die," he breathed.

"He's going to kill you." Andrew's eyes burned into Kurt's. Kurt was lost, aching, frozen. "We're not going to let that happen."

"Because _you _want to kill him?" Kurt found himself saying.

Andrew shifted his grip on Blaine possessively. "Blaine is not going to die—not at Dalton. Isn't that right, Blaine?" he pressed his lips to Blaine's cheek and Kurt's stomach clenched at the intimacy of the gesture. "We're going to set him free," he murmured against the skin.

Blaine shuddered.

"But you're a Fascinator," Kurt frowned. "_How_—?"

Andrew turned to Kurt, eyes glittering. "Contrary to what you might think," he said lowly, "he's not yours. He belongs with us. He belongs to me."

"He belongs to no one_,_" Kurt said firmly, "He's a human being."

"He's not even remotely close to human," came a new voice, too old to be a student. Blaine jerked, eyes widening at the sound.

Kurt's attention snapped to the door, where—

"Mercedes!" he cried. A fox-faced older man was leading her through the doorway, a hand placed firmly on her shoulder, directing her toward the choir room chairs. She took in the scene before her with wide, watering eyes.

"I'm sorry, Kurt," she said softly, "Tina said you were so sick, and they said it was because of Blaine… they said they could help." He didn't have time to answer her as the rest of the glee club were suddenly pushed in, crowded into the room by three more Dalton boys.

"Kurt!" "What's going on?" "Kurt?" "Is that Blaine?" Their faces twisted in worry as they got a closer look.

"Who are you people and why are you in our choir room?" Rachel demanded. Finn frowned.

"Kurt, what's going on?"

"What are you doing to them?" asked Tina quietly.

A soft, terrible, pained noise came from Blaine, and Kurt was suddenly fiercely reminded that he couldn't handle the glee club well_, _even on his best days.

"Please—calm down," Kurt strained to get across to them, watching helplessly as Blaine slumped further against the body holding him. His friends were ushered next to him into the circle of boys, looking suddenly small amidst the huge group surrounding them.

"Andrew," the man said, and Andrew nodded once. One of his arms moved to grab Blaine's hand, bringing their interlaced fingers up to his lips. Blaine jerked hard, his eyes flashing, and suddenly the glee club cut off in silence. Rachel's eyes widened and she pressed against… it looked like a wall made of air. Kurt's heart leapt into his throat.

"What did you do?" he demanded anxiously, but the man didn't answer.

"Professor Erickson, I've done what I can, but he's not there yet," Andrew said, sounding for all intents and purposes like he was talking about a soufflé he'd put in the oven. Kurt saw red.

"How can you go on talking about him like that?" he cried, struggling against the arms holding him. "He's a human being, not a—!"

"He's _not _human," Erickson interrupted, frustration sharpening his voice. And before Kurt could do anything—could move, could scream, could—the man had a knife, and he was plunging it into Blaine's chest and Kurt couldn't even move, couldn't even scream, couldn't even—and the knife came out, thick with red, and Blaine let out a kind of choked grunt as it slid out past his ribs, and that's when Kurt saw Rachel's silent scream breaking the spell on the rest of the choir room, and Santana was mouthing profanities, and Finn was looking so small and lost, and Blaine's face was contorted in shock, pain, staring at Kurt like Kurt could _help _him and Kurt _couldn't_—

"All this drama," Erickson muttered, shaking his head. "Completely needless. Have you not been listening to me?" Erickson took out a handkerchief and calmly wiped off the blood—_Blaine's blood_—from his blade. "Blaine," he called, disinterest dulling the room. Blaine made a noise that sounded like gurgling, his face drained too-white. "Heal yourself. Quickly, please."

And Blaine convulsed, arms spasming around to claw behind him into the forearms of the boy holding him, his eyes filling with molten amber and large in his face as his mouth fell open and—

Time seemed to stop for one brief second, and Kurt suddenly was presented with a clear, unmoving image of that first day he had brought a stranger into his house: coming down to a wrecked living room. Everything toppled over and smashed.

And then he blinked.

It was like something exploded out of Blaine—a huge gust of wind, magic—and Kurt staggered as it pressed into him, pushing him backwards, something screaming past his ears and when it stopped he stumbled forward into granite arms. He looked up to find Blaine wilted against Andrew, breathing short, panting breaths with long intervals of terrifying nothing in between—his shirt still bloody, but the wound…

Completely healed.

Kurt couldn't breathe. He remembered an entire day of utter stillness. A river of dried blood on the ground.

Blaine wasn't human, he had told Kurt that, Kurt _knew _that, but…

But Blaine wasn't _human_.

_"I can shift things into a pocket of space." _

Blaine had hid all that blood from him that day by the tree. It hadn't been a hallucination. He had been injured—had he been in a coma? Had he… could he even die?

_"Must have fallen…"_

What had happened when he'd run away? Why hadn't he told Kurt about this—about Erickson, and Andrew, and what they were trying to do to him? Why hadn't he…

Why hadn't he _told Kurt_ about all of this?

_"I want to be honest with you. No more secrets anymore."_

"Still no," Andrew was saying, and Erickson hummed thoughtfully.

"Being stubborn, are we?" he said.

Blaine's eyes found Kurt's, unreadable. Kurt wanted to set up a wall between them—like Blaine had done to Kurt. He couldn't be expected to deal with all of this by himself. Where was the boy who had helped him confront his bullies? Where was—_Blaine_, the honest, beautiful, passionate, caring Blaine Kurt had fallen in love with. The Blaine Kurt_ needed_ right now, needed to see, to feel, to _hear_, not this cut-off, closed-off stranger who had left him alone. Who had _lied _to him. Who remained still, silent, pliant to these people who were tearing him up like he was a piece of paper.

What had happened to _Blaine_?

Out of the corner of his eyes, Kurt saw Erickson surveying them both with a calculating gleam.

"Ah," he said quietly. "I see now. You're his Fascinator." He came to stand right in front of Kurt, blocking his view of the boy-who-used-to-be-Blaine and meeting his eyes. "What's your name, boy?"

Kurt stared back, defiant. _(Defiance, Blaine, this is what it looks like, remember?)_ "Kurt Hummel," he said coldly.

"Kurt," the man tasted his name as if it were a fine wine. "He's certainly got his hooks into you, hasn't he?" He smiled a sympathetic grin, and it was all Kurt could do to stop himself from doing anything worse than glaring. Mercedes shifted protectively next to him. "How soon was it before he started you on it? Was it the first day you met? Or did he have enough self-control to wait until the week was out?"

_"Just try it_." _A lazy afternoon on a couch._ _"Really try."_

"I don't know what you're talking about," Kurt breathed, feeling violated.

"It's addicting, isn't it?" Erickson asked. "Like a drug. How does it feel right now, not to touch him? Not to use his power?" Kurt felt tears burning his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He would _not _cry in front of this man. He and Blaine, they weren't what this man thought they were. They _weren't. _"Kurt, it's all right," Erickson soothed. "None of this is your fault." He turned to look at Blaine, who looked so small, helpless in another boy's grip, whose unreadable gaze was still locked on Kurt. "It's his."

He walked toward him, shark-like. "Because it _is _a drug. And he knows it. He can feel it, when we first have that taste, and he latches on like a leech." Kurt couldn't take his eyes away from Blaine. It wasn't true. Blaine was the sweetest person Kurt had ever… it _wasn't_ true. Blaine's eyes stayed locked on his.

"Magic is ultimately a symbiotic being, Kurt," Erickson continued. "It needs people like you and me to live. People who will regulate its body. People who will help it rebalance when emotions get too high. People who feel so strongly, even a quiet emotion will sustain its life for days. It manifests itself in families, sometimes skipping centuries, sometimes generations. Forming itself into little pretend-people in order to better access humanity. An adorable baby that grows into a sweet child, surveying the world and learning its habits… before it unleashes its true colors after puberty." He stopped in front of Blaine, who was looking at him now, their eyes locked. "Turning into something all you little girls and boys crave." Kurt's skin crawled as Erickson placed a gentle hand on Blaine's jaw. "Something beautiful."—trailed it down his neck—"Vulnerable."—down his chest, and Blaine was starting to shake—"Enticing."—ending flat against his stomach. Blaine didn't look away, his breathing speeding up, and Kurt wanted to tear that hand away and break it.

"You see, Kurt," Erickson continued softly, eyes boring into Blaine's, "He may have told you any number of lies in order to gain your trust, but the truth is: Magic really only wants one thing…" His hand twisted, pressing into Blaine's stomach like the boy in Kurt's backyard, so many weeks ago, and Blaine _arched_—

"To be used."

Blaine _cried out_, and his eyes flashed, and Kurt sucked in a breath because that sounded like—

_"Why did you stop?"_

_"Couldn't focus."_

Erickson let go, stepping away. Blaine was panting, sweating, heavy-lidded and leaning so heavily against Andrew he looked lifeless. Kurt had seen the look that was on Andrew's face before—had seen it every day on one boy whenever he went to school; in a cafeteria; in a locker room. He wanted to throw up. This was violation, this was—He wanted Blaine to move, to get away from these people, to not just lie there and _take it_ like he _deserved _it or—

"That felt good, didn't it?" Erickson murmured to Blaine.

Kurt was going to strangle him.

Blaine drew in a ragged breath like a drowning man, and his face crumpled. Kurt huffed out a staggered breath as he caught sight of Blaine's eyes: a brilliant shade of amber, _bleeding_ into the whites of his eyes.

"Please, don't," Blaine said, finally. "Please. Stop. Please, _don't_."

Kurt needed to get to him, to hold him, to do _something_.

"Blaine," he said, but Blaine didn't turn to look at him. All of his attention was focused on Erickson.

"And here I thought you were never going to beg us for anything," Andrew said quietly. "Isn't that what you told me, Blaine?"

Blaine wasn't looking at anyone but Erickson, pleading with his eyes and _crying. _Tears spilled out of Kurt's eyes and ran hot down his cheeks as he watched. He'd only ever seen Blaine like this once and—

And Kurt suddenly understood.

A room full of people. A room full of people who already overwhelmed him, who didn't know a thing about what was going on—and nobody tried to tell them, _Kurt_ never told them, and they had _feelings_ about that, feelings about a person they've known for weeks getting _hurt_ in front of their eyes, being stabbed, dehumanized, and they didn't understand, and they didn't know how to help, and they were _scared_. And then there was the school, the hundreds of students and teachers in class, and the Dalton boys, all Magicians and skilled in working with Blaine. And Erickson, and Andrew—

And Kurt.

…And there was Kurt.

Blaine had told Kurt that he felt him on a whole other level than anyone else, and Kurt believed him. And Kurt was in the room, too, Kurt was in the building, feeling things, too, complicated, terrifying things and—

_"Just stay calm. If anything happens, just promise me you'll stay calm."_

That was why they were doing this here. Hurting him, here, in the choir room (_it's just that I'd been told you'd be in this room, and when you weren't here, I got a little impatient_) And Kurt and Blaine had set this all up for them, unintentionally building the scaffolding for their own hanging. What were they trying to do to him? Why did they need Blaine back so badly? What had Andrew meant by 'setting Blaine free'?

Erickson calmly grabbed Blaine's chin and lifted, tilting his head so Blaine was looking into his eyes.

"Hello there," he said, nonchalant. "It's so nice to finally see you again."

"Please," Blaine rasped. "_Please_."

"I think this is the best we'll get out of you today, yes?" Erickson let go of Blaine and turned to Andrew. "He's ready. Erase this mess."

"_NO!" _It was a torn-up scream, watered down by the thunderstorm Blaine had been keeping inside of him all this time, and echoing strangely with a power that had never before been threaded through his voice. He suddenly jerked away, violent and fast and out of control—but Andrew was faster, whispering something into his ear that glued his feet to the ground, wrapping his arms around him in some kind of eerie embrace. Blaine recoiled, curling in on himself, and Kurt remembered _I was drawn to him _and he remembered _he wanted to try things_, and he felt like this whole room was a puzzle and he was finally seeing all the pieces, understanding where they fit, what picture they were spelling out, and his heart dropped out of his stomach. _"_NO, NOT HIM! PLEASE! HE'LL DIE, YOU CAN'T, NOT HIM, NOT HIM, PLEASE!_ NO!"_

Kurt's tears wracked his body, and he shook against the boy holding him. Blaine was wild, vicious as he fought Andrew's grip, something primal and terrified, sobbing animalistic screams in the middle of the room, and the New Directions looked on in varying degrees of shock and fear and horror. Kurt couldn't watch this.

"_DON'T!"_

"Blaine, just focus on me!" Kurt cried out. "Focus on me!"

"**_KURT!_**_"_

"You can feel me, I'm _right here_, just—!"

A hand clamped rough and angry over his mouth and Kurt bared his teeth to bite the damn thing off when he noticed that the boy by the door wasn't by the door anymore—he was by Blaine—and he was grabbing Blaine's hand and Blaine kept struggling, screaming in Andrew's grip as Andrew took the other hand and squeezed, latching his mouth onto Blaine's like a man dying of thirst and—


	25. Please Do Not Adjust Your TV Set

**Chapter Summary: "Please remember this.**"

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><p><strong>AN:** I hope I haven't lost all of you because of the insanity of the last chapter. Thank you all for taking the time to comment and share your opinions and appreciation; it's the only way I know I'm not entirely screwing this story up, and your words of encouragement are so helpful (although last chapter you all were a little tongue-tied... mwuahahahaha). Chapter Twelve should be up within the week! In the meantime, here is something to tide you all over, because that cliffhanger was absolutely horrible.

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><p><em>You won't remember this. Not when you're awake. <em>

_Maybe not ever._

_I can't let myself believe that. I need to believe some part of you will understand this. I_

_I won't be able to get through this without believing that some part of you is understanding this._

_Wes has this master plan with which he's going to take down Erickson, and it involves me. I can't say any more_

_I literally **can't **say any more_

_but he's decided Dalton and what it represents is more important than my own decision to walk away from the plan. He_

_I_

_We disagree on that point. Vehemently. But I can't talk to him about it. I can't talk to anyone about it. I haven't seen any of the Warblers except John and Nick since I ran away; John was the boy who was holding you. Nick I saw briefly as I was brought into the Academy._

_Flint is a Warbler. He's the one who set this entire disaster in_

_No_

_Wes is the one who set this entire disaster into motion. Not Flint. I just need someone to blame right now and Flint is an easy target._

_Kurt. Listen. This is important: John gave you amsugnol that day—it's what he made you swallow. I don't know how he snuck it in, but it's a combination of angel's trumpet, willow bark, and wolfsbane. It's a mild absorbent, but, most powerfully and most importantly, it's a numbing agent. Fascinators used to take it for pain in an attempt to avoid the inevitable. They believed it would take away all of the Magic they'd taken into their system._

_Kurt_

_You can't feel it anymore_

_but it's still there. _

_It's still in your veins and you're still in withdrawal. The amsugnol will give you time, but essentially it is drawing out your death._

**_You need to find Dalton. You need to find me. You need to fight this._**_ Don't let it fool you into thinking you're okay because you're not_

_You're dying_

_And you need to_

_._

_._

_Wes knows more about this than I do. My mother might, too. Find them. Figure out what_

_._

_._

_Please just fight this please just be okay_

_._

_._

_Please_

_remember this._

_._

_._

_._  
><em>.<em>

_Kurt_

_._  
><em>.<em>

_I'm so scared._


	26. Of All I've Lost I Miss My Mind The Most

**Chapter Summary: Some of his classmates are acting a little oddly, and Kurt feels like something is missing.**

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><p><strong>AN:** I am so sorry for the wait with this one; I under-estimated the amount of work I'd be able to get done after rehearsal every night and had to wait for a night I was free to finish editing! The last scene of this chapter I've had in my head since September, so I hope it's come out well! It will be two or so weeks until the first chapter of the sequel is posted-I want to make sure I have a few chapters written before I start posting so that I can post on a regular schedule with that one. But I hope you all enjoy the final chapter of this part. Thank you all so much for sticking with me; your reviews and support really means so much. Keep an eye out for the sequel! Check out my tumblr later for a clue as to what will be in store for the boys in the future.

Here's a link to the song that features most prominently in this chapter: www. youtube. com /watch?v=KAmmtqLmLsw. I highly recommend listening to it when you get to that part. :)

And now, without further ado: the last chapter of Left Over.

* * *

><p>Something felt off.<p>

It was that stale taste at the back of his throat; the bitter-slick saliva warning him his body had lost a sheild and he was about to come down with something; the spiderwebs at the corners of his eyes telling him he had slept too much that morning.

Something was missing.

He didn't know what it was. He just knew he felt _off._

Mercedes poked his arm.

"Are you listening to me?" she repeated. "I said, what do you think about Schue running out of ideas for glee club? I swear we've sung songs about nostalgia before."

"When?" Kurt asked, honestly curious. He had been thinking the same thing when Schue announced the assignment yesterday. He had thought it was déjà-vu at the time. "I can't remember any specific time we sang them."

Mercedes frowned, shrugging. "I don't know," she said slowly. "I guess it just felt like we'd done it before."

Tina was bringing her lunch tray over, sitting down heavily across from them. "Finally, someone else who agrees with me!" she exclaimed. "I was telling Mike yesterday that I could have sworn we'd done this assignment before and he looked at me like I was crazy. It took me two seconds to pick out my song, tops."

"We probably did an assignment close to nostalgia and we're thinking about that," Kurt said dubiously.

"No, I _know_ it was nostalgia," Mercedes protested. "Because I had to look up what the word meant last time before I could look up songs to sing."

"It was definitely nostalgia," Tina agreed. Kurt toyed thoughtfully with his salad. The right side of his body felt too cold, he noticed.

"Do you feel like something's off today?" he asked.

The girls looked at him strangely.

"Not really," Tina said.

Mercedes shook her head.

"Hmm." He put down his fork and glanced around the cafeteria, wondering vaguely where Artie went.

Karofsky caught his gaze at the other end of the room.

Kurt froze, tensing.

The other boy looked almost… disappointed? It was a brief look; he glanced away as easily as he had met Kurt's eyes, and Kurt was left hovering over an empty step.

Kurt blinked.

That was new. No leering? No stares of any kind? …What had that been about?

He frowned and set to eating his salad, trying to shake off the weirdness that seemed to be permeating his day. If Karofsky didn't want to harass him today, he wasn't about to complain. No sense looking a gift horse in the mouth.

"This is going to bug me all day," Mercedes grumbled over her food. "I just know it."

He didn't sit next to Mercedes or Tina in glee club. He didn't know why—his body had simply walked on autopilot toward a seat he didn't remember ever sitting in. Mercedes shot him a confused look as he had done so, and Kurt sent her an apologetic shrug, but hadn't moved. It was a seat no one was sitting near, strangely, and Kurt was suddenly brought up short as he wondered _what_, exactly, was so strange about the seat next to him being empty. Something tickled at the back of his mind.

Rachel abruptly burst into the room, looking unusually solemn, and Kurt raised an eyebrow as she sat down next to him. He eyed her suspiciously as Noah Puckerman eagerly came up to the front to fill the assignment, throwing his guitar strap over his shoulder and strumming with a knowing smile on his face.

"This is the ultimate song about nostalgia," Puck announced with a grin. "I think you all know it."

It was a good performance, Kurt supposed, but his attention was taken up by the surprisingly warm presence of Rachel Berry next to him. But she did nothing unusual, smiling and singing along when everyone else joined in with Puck as he reached the final chorus: "_And them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey in Rye—singing 'this'll be the day that I die'." _

Kurt shrugged it off and sang along with them.

_"This'll be the day that I die."_

Puck strummed out the final chords, his voice lingering over the strings as if trying to outlast their sound. A chill ran up Kurt's back suddenly, inexplicably, and the room filled with applause.

_You're dying,_ something whispered in his ear.

He shook his head slightly to clear it, spooked.

"Kurt?" Rachel asked. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he answered airily, wondering why she cared. She didn't have time to question him further, as Tina happily skipped up to the front of the room after Puck sat down.

"This song is kind of like Puck's," she began, and Kurt watched curiously as Santana and Brittany came up to set up chairs behind her. "It's about having lost someone. I thought this assignment was a great opportunity to introduce some other, less mainstream artists to the room, so prepare yourselves for greatness."

Kurt sent her a smile as she settled into the chair that had been set in between Santana and Brittany. Solemn piano chords began to play, floating over the room like clouds.

"_The sky looks pissed,_" Tina started. "_The wind talks back. My bones are shifting in my skin—"_

"_And you, my love, are gone,"_ Santana and Brittany sang with her.

Their voices intertwined throughout the song as Tina sang another verse and they went into the chorus, weaving together and then apart in ghostly harmony. Kurt felt himself shiver as the music drifted over him, resting strong and thin over the room. His skin prickled from the dew of it.

"_I'll never say that I'll never love."_ Kurt straightened at the abrupt plunge of his heart, letting out a startled breath. "_But I don't say a lot of things—and you, my love, are gone."_

There was a weird aching in his bones, random sentences crawling across his mind. Words that sounded like they should have been sharp, but were blunted and indistinct and formless: _Please remember this. Find me._ A voice Kurt had heard in his dreams the night before, one he didn't remember ever hearing before and yet one that sounded so familiar…

Rachel grabbed his hand gently. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asked quietly as the girls kept singing. Kurt sniffed, surprised to find silent tears gliding softly down his cheeks. He pulled his hand away from Rachel's, wiping away at his cheeks and trying to blink away the rest filling in his eyes. He didn't know why he was crying—he didn't _feel _sad. What was there to be sad about?

Why was he _crying_?

"_So glide away on soapy heels, and promise not to promise anymore. And if you come around again, then I will take… then I will take… then I will take the chain from off—_

_"The door," _Tina finished, her voice the only sound in the room. It settled like silk as the final note ended.

The room burst into applause.

"That was lovely," Quinn said from the back, and Mike agreed loudly. Tina's grin was wide.

"Beautiful, Tina, Santana, Brittany, just beautiful," Schue said, getting up to the front of the room. "I'm really impressed with how quickly you guys have put these songs together. That's the kind of work ethic that will win us Nationals!" He clapped his hands together firmly. "Anyone else?"

Rachel spoke up. "Mr. Schue, I don't think Kurt is feeling well," she said. "I think he should go home."

Schue looked at him, concerned. "Kurt?" he asked.

Kurt looked at Mercedes, whose expression was furrowed with worry, and then Rachel, who… there was a strange, unknowing sadness in her eyes. He noticed suddenly the nearly invisible traces of tears on her cheeks—she seemed utterly unaware of them.

He wondered if she had been affected by the song, too.

"Yeah," he said softly. "I think I'd like to go home."

Schue nodded.

Kurt was sent on his way followed by get-well wishes, and Finn awkwardly telling him that he'd get a ride home from Puck.

_My room feels wrong,_ Tina's song echoed eerily in his mind as he caught sight of the door to his room. It was closed—he always kept his door closed—and for a brief, insane moment as he opened it he expected it to be locked.

It wasn't. Because there was no reason for it to be.

_…All right, then._

His room was too large and too empty, and Kurt pressed his palms against his eyes to try to clear the strangeness from his mind because this was getting a little ridiculous. Maybe he was coming down with something.

A hot shower might clear his head.

He took off his sweater as he paced the room, looking to see if anything was misplaced or simply missing. Nothing was, of course, because nothing was wrong, but he couldn't stop himself from checking. His eyes swept over his vanity, and—

His interest was caught in the mirror. There, curling around the pulse of his wrist, was—

Kurt jerked his wrist back toward his chest, a spike of alarm ricocheting up his body.

Oh my god.

Breathing hard and staring intently, he turned his arm toward the mirror. And, slowly… lifted up his sleeve.

Kurt froze, wide eyes staring at the stitching running up his arm. He pulled his sleeve up higher. There, again, following his vein. And there. And—

He took off his shirt as fast as he could, fingers stumbling over the buttons before he tore it away and threw it to the ground. His heart hammered against his ribs as he took in the letters crawling in perfect cursive up both of his arms. All over every inch of his arms, creeping under his shortsleeves and he _whipped off his undershirt_, blood rushing hot in his ears and his cheeks as they continued down his chest, on his back, _everywhere_ and Kurt read it all, pulse pounding and breath quickening, the same phrase, over and over, under his skin, stitched in the blues and purples of his veins and then the white of his skin and then the red of his blood, glinting in the light of his room—

_I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you._

Something punched him in the chest and the strings that had been holding him up were cut.

He sank boneless to the floor, staring at the message written all over his body in numb fascination. That voice repeated in his ear: _Please remember this. You need to find me._

_Please_

_Remember this._

He had been right—something _was _missing. Something had been taken away from him—from all of them—from _him_, someone had _loved him _and he had been taken away and all Kurt could remember were a few words in his voice and the empty feeling that someone should be holding his hand. He touched the image of himself in the mirror, tracing the words with his eyes, gently following the curving loops of the cursive.

Something was missing and whoever had taken it had abandoned Kurt to phantom memories; with no clues of how to claim it back. With no real recollection of what it was he had lost.

With only the understanding that it was _gone_—taken away—

Only the words stitched into his skin left over.


	27. Preview of the Sequel

**Author's Note:**

Hey guys!

For those of you that have been waiting for a sequel, check out my profile; _Keeping the Balance_, the sequel to _Left Over_, is out now and updating every week! Go check it out, read, and review!

Lots of love,

Sun

* * *

><p>Sneak Peak:<p>

* * *

><p><em><em>They met up once a week, to gather stories and fragments of memories like puzzle pieces. No one recognized the name when Kurt first spoke it–a name he'd found buried somewhere in his dreams–but he couldn't shake the feeling that it was important: "Blaine". Whatever had been taken from them had something to do with Blaine.<em>_

* * *

><p><em><em> "You keep turning up to school looking like you're only half here. Plus, you've been oversleeping, and I've never seen you so lazily-dressed as you are now. Why are both you and Rachel acting all weird if you don't have anything to do with each other?"<em>_

__"I'm just sick, 'Cedes. Maybe I'm coming down with what Rachel has."  
><em>_

* * *

><p><em>"Please," he whispered, knowing he shouldn't. "Once more. Just once more."<br>_

* * *

><p><em>Freedom gaped long and narrow out from the doorway, down a dusky hallway that he could see every inch of. He saw when they came. He saw when they left. He saw the window at the very end of the hallway, open and unlocked and staring back at him whenever he deemed to glance at it.<em>

_He wanted a fucking door._

* * *

><p><em>"He's not human."<em>

_"They want you to think that. He's very human. What's inside him-how he can feel, and care about what he feels-that's all human."_

* * *

><p><em>"What's your name?"<em>

_"Sebastian."_

_"Do you have a favorite bird, Sebastian?"_

_"Sure. I'm a fan of warblers."  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>He collapsed, trembling so hard he couldn't keep himself upright and god god god, was this what it felt like to die, was this him <strong>dying<strong>?_

* * *

><p><em>"He's just there. I can feel him with me, right in the corner of my mind, just being there and he won't tell me where he is, or what I can do to help him, or why he's suddenly disappearing on me-he's stopping talking to me and I don't know what to do. I feel like we're running out of time."<em>

* * *

><p><em>He saw him in his dreams every night; a ghostly after-image of trailing amber lights, silky smooth voices, and the feeling of being embraced. They were like breaths of fresh air, the only times his mind felt completely and utterly clear. The more he dreamt, the more they met, the more he remembered their meetings when he awoke.<em>

* * *

><p><em>He would remember this time.<br>_

* * *

><p><em>"Find me. Please. Find me."<br>_


End file.
